The Faded Alibi
The ink is bleeding again. You look up from the parchment, your knuckles white around the reed pen. The Abbot stands in the doorway, his shadow falling across the scriptorium like a slab of wet slate. He does not enter. He does not need to. The weight of his silence presses against your chest, heavier than the stone walls that enclose you. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you have twenty...
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