The Pale Exile
The coat is wool, heavy and grey, the color of the dust that settles in the lower stacks of the State Repository. It was Elara’s, before the fever took her, and she pinned the last button to the collar with a hand that trembled not from cold but from the effort of saying goodbye. I am thirty-two years old, and I have spent twenty of them cataloging the silence of other men’s lives, but today...
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