The Faded Road
The wool coat sat on the chair by the door, a heavy, dark thing that smelled of damp earth and old smoke. It was my father’s, worn thin at the elbows, the buttons yellowed with age. I put it on before I left the house, the weight of it settling on my shoulders like a second skin. I was thirty-four years old, a constable in the coal town of Blackwood, and the winter debt was eating my father’s...
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