Every night at 8 PM, a little girl slips into an old leather jacket, its blackened seams and torn lining far too big for her tiny frame. The sleeves drag behind her like shadows, collecting dust, but she doesn’t mind.
Every night at 8 PM, a little girl slips into an old leather jacket, its blackened seams and torn lining far too big for her tiny frame. The sleeves drag behind her like shadows, collecting dust, but she doesn’t mind. It once belonged to her grandfather—Ozzy Osbourne. She says it still smells like him: a…