The Faded Alibi
The ink on your fingers is the same color as the dried blood in the corner of your mouth, a deep, bruised violet that will not wash away, and as you sit in the high-backed chair of the moving carriage, rattling over the cobblestones of a town that does not exist on any map you have ever seen, you realize that the name you were given at birth, the name your mother whispered into the hollow of...
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