The Faded Alibi

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2026-08-19 00:19:23 -

The Faded Alibi

The ink is still wet on my hands when I wake. It is a dark, viscous stain. It clings to the whorls of my fingerprints. It smells of iron and old paper. I do not remember signing the confession. I do not remember the room, or the man with the grey eyes, or the weight of the pen in my palm. But the stain is there. It is the only truth left. I am in a cell. The walls are stone. The air is cold. It...

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