The Coat

He found it at the back of the rack in a second-hand shop, among jackets that smelled of other lives. He tried it on just to try. It fitted as if stitched onto him: the shoulders exact, the sleeves exact. On the lining, embroidered in dark red thread, were his initials. He laughed to himself. What a coincidence.

The shop assistant gave him a discount he hadn't asked for. "That coat comes back a lot," she said, the way people talk about the weather.

At home he discovered an inside pocket and, in it, a piece of paper folded in four. He recognised the handwriting before the words, because it was his own: the same crooked capitals, the same wayward comma.

"This time, keep it."

He hung up the coat, closed the wardrobe slowly and said nothing about it at dinner. In the morning he looked again. The paper was still there, folded in four, waiting.

It was blank.