The Faded Alibi
The iron key hung at Eleanor’s throat, cold against the pulse of her skin, a weight that had outlasted the hands that forged it. It was not a key for a door, nor for a lock, but for a seal, a jagged tooth of black metal that bit into the soft flesh of her collarbone. For thirty years, it had been the only thing in the house that did not rot, did not fade, did not succumb to the slow, damp decay...
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