The Faded Alibi
The parchment lay open on the oak table, its edges curled and brittle, bearing a list of names in a hand that had long since faded to a faint, ghostly grey. Thomas Bradshaw, a lay brother of thirty-two years, traced the line of ink with a finger that trembled not from cold, but from the iron-tasting dread that had settled in his gut like a swallowed stone. The list was the Abbey’s ledger of...
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