The Faded Alibi
The rejection letter lay on the desk, its edges crisp against the scarred oak, the ink drying into a permanent scab over the words *non-compliant*. Elias Thorne stared at the document, his thumb rubbing a small, splintered knot in the wood of his desk, a sensation that felt less like furniture and more like the rough, dry bark of a rotting oak tree. He was forty-five, a mid-level actuary at...
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