The Faded Alibi
The steam from the Blackwood railway station clings to your coat like a wet, woolen shroud, and the air tastes of coal dust and iron, a flavor that settles deep in the throat and refuses to leave. You are Elias Thorne, a man of forty-two years whose hands have spent three decades coaxing time from brass and steel, and you have come to this soot-blackened industrial town with a singular,...
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