The Faded Alibi
The ledger sat on the desk, its leather cover worn to the texture of dried skin, open to a page where the ink had begun to bleed into the fiber of the paper like a bruise spreading under translucent flesh. I was the Custodian of the Archive, a title that sounded more like a job in a funeral home than a position in the Ministry of Historical Records, and my duty was to ensure that the past...
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