The Faded Alibi
The moth was dead. It lay on the cold iron of the prison floor, its wings folded like a crumpled letter. I watched it. I had watched it since it landed. It had come from the ventilation grate. It had flown in with the dust. It had sought the light of my single bulb. It had found nothing but shadow. Now it was still. Its wings were brown. They were thin. They were torn. They were like my own...
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