The Faded Alibi
The iron gate is locked. You stand before it, hand on the cold bar, listening to the wind howl through the pine trees. It is a sound like a wounded animal. You are the Keeper. The title is old. The duty is older. You have held this post for forty years. The others left. They could not bear the silence. You could. You learned to love the stillness. It was a comfort. Then it became a cage. The...
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