The Faded Alibi
The glass bird lay in your palm, cold and jagged, its wings snapped clean off at the joints, the remaining shards catching the weak morning light of the archive room. You held it there, turning it over and over, feeling the sharp edge bite into the soft flesh of your thumb, a small, bright pain that grounded you in the present. Outside, the wind was tearing the old ivy from the walls of Harrow...
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