The Faded Alibi
You wake with the taste of iron in your mouth. The dream has left you there, standing in a field of white ash, holding a key that does not fit any lock you know. You are a clockmaker. Your hands are steady, but your heart is not. You are fifty-four years old, and time is no longer a client you service. It is a creditor. It sits on your chest, heavy as wet wool, waiting for you to pay up. You...
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