The Faded Alibi
The fog does not roll in so much as it condenses, a thick, gray sludge that rises from the black water of the harbor to swallow the dockyard whole, erasing the sharp edges of the cranes and the rusted hulls of the ships until only the smell of brine and rot remains, a scent that has soaked into your bones since you left the life you knew behind, that life where the air smelled of lavender and...
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