The Faded Alibi
The house was burning, and I was standing in the kitchen holding a copper kettle that had been my mother’s, feeling the heat radiate through the cast iron and into the marrow of my bones, a sensation that was not pain but a terrible, clarifying warmth that promised the end of all things. The smoke was thick enough to taste, metallic and sweet, and it coated my throat with a film that made every...
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