The Distant Nightmare
Do you think a coat can hold a soul? I am Liesel Hoffmann, twelve years old, and the wool of my father’s heavy overcoat is soaked through with the melting snow of the canal road. It drags at my shoulders, a weight that feels less like fabric and more like the leaden air of the border checkpoint where we waited for three days, the sleet turning the mud into a paste that sucked at my boots. I am...
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