The Wistful Petal
The thread is cut. "You see, Elias, it is not about the wool. It is about the weight." Sarah’s voice was low, barely rising above the hiss of the ventilation shafts behind us. She stood in the corridor of the Ministry of Textile Standards, her archivist’s card clipped to her blouse, her eyes fixed on the coat draped over my arm. It was my father’s. Heavy, brown, smelling of pipe tobacco and...
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