The Faded Alibi
You pack the jars. Glass. Honey. Amber light. The sun hits the window. It is sharp. It cuts the dust. You seal the lid. Tight. Your hands shake. No. They do not. You are steady. You are the King’s Baker. The court is hungry. Always hungry. Not for bread. For truth. Or for the lie that tastes like bread. You look at the jar. The honey moves. Slow. Thick as time. Thick as guilt. You remember the...
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