The Faded Alibi
The rain fell upon the cobblestones of the old quarter with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like a judgment, a relentless drumming against the shutters of the cell where Marcus Thorne sat, his back against the cold stone, his breath misting in the air that smelled of damp wool and centuries of unspoken regrets. He was a man who had been defined by a single garment, a heavy...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews