The Faded Alibi
The frost on the windowpane had formed in patterns that Elias Thorne recognized as the early stages of decay. He sat alone in the station’s waiting room, a place that smelled of damp wool and old brass polish. It was a train stop in the industrial belt of the north, a place where the air tasted of iron and the light was always grey. Elias was a man of letters, a scholar of taxonomy,...
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