The Faded Alibi
The parchment was damp with the sweat of Thomas Bradshaw’s palm. He sat in the cold stone corridor of the King’s court, the year 1342 heavy in the air, and watched the ink dry on the confession he had not written but was now forced to sign. The shadow behind him did not move like a person’s shadow; it pooled, thick and viscous, a dark stain on the whitewashed wall that seemed to breathe in time...
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