The Faded Alibi
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray drizzle that turned the cobblestones of Harrowgate into slick, reflective mirrors of the overcast sky, and in the quiet of the archive room, where the air smelled of decaying paper and the metallic tang of old dust, Elias Thorne sat before a single, unopened box, his hands resting on the wooden surface with a stillness that seemed to...
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