The Faded Photograph
The watch is dead. You hold it in your palm, the leather strap worn thin by the friction of a decade’s service, the crystal face clouded with a haze that no amount of polishing can clear. It is a Seiko, modest and utilitarian, the kind of object that belongs to men who do not need to announce their wealth but require their time to be exact. You stare at it in the dim light of the interrogation...
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