The Faded Alibi
"Is it true?" The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade. It was not a question of curiosity. It was an accusation. I stood before the desk. The wood was dark, polished to a mirror sheen. It reflected my face. I looked old. My hands were resting on the edge of the table. They trembled. Not from fear. From cold. The room was cold. The fire had gone out an hour ago. No one had tended it....
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