The Faded Alibi
You stand before the tribunal of the High Street. The air is thick with the scent of wet wool and stale bread. You are twelve years old. Your hands are tucked deep into the sleeves of your coat, which is too large for your shrinking frame. The coat belongs to your father. He is not here. He is in the cell below, where the stone weeps and the rats are bold. You are the witness. Or so the men in...
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