The Faded Alibi
The brass badge sits in your palm, cold and heavy, its surface worn smooth by years of thumbs. You turn it over, watching the light catch the engraving, the name THORNE E. stamped in clean, indifferent letters. Outside the window of the train car, the landscape blurs into a smear of grey mud and bare trees, the border region stretching out flat and hostile. In three days, the tribunal convenes....
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