The Wistful Witness
I Did the wool ever truly dry? Nils Ekstrom woke with the taste of damp plaster on his tongue, the weight of his dead brother’s coat still pressing on his chest as if he had not shed it. He was forty-two, a retired constable, and the heating bill for the month of November sat on the table like a debt that would not forgive. The closet door was ajar. Inside, the space where the heavy wool coat...
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