The Faded Alibi
The rain hammers the tin roof of the signal box. It is a violent, rhythmic assault. You stand in the center of the room, gripping the lever. Your hands are slick. The brass is cold. You are not a man. You have not been a man for three hundred years. You are a thing of smoke and memory, trapped in the machinery of the line. The clock above the door ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. It counts down to your...
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