The Faded Alibi
The dream began not with a whisper, but with the grinding of stone against stone, a sound so heavy and slow that it seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones before it ever reached his ears. In the slumber of a man who had spent thirty years keeping the ledger of the town’s harvests, time did not flow; it pooled. He lay in his narrow bed in the upper room of the Guild Hall, the...
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