The Faded Alibi
The ink in the well was dry, cracked into a pale, dusty crust that flaked under my pen nib. I scraped it away with a thumbnail, the grit catching in the cuticle, a small, sharp pain that kept me tethered to the desk. Outside, the wind off the river had a different quality today; it did not whistle, it dragged. It pulled at the hem of my coat, at the wool of my trousers, as if trying to peel the...
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