The Faded Alibi

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2026-08-21 17:47:20 -

The Faded Alibi

The ink on my palm is dry, but the ghost of it remains. It is a bruise made of letters, a topography of secrets that no longer exist. I am twelve years old, or perhaps I am old enough to remember being twelve. Time is a strange fluid in the Archive. It pools in the corners of the room and drains away from the center, leaving us suspended in a gray, timeless hum. "Do you know what it says?" I...

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