The Faded Alibi
The ink was black, viscous, and smelled faintly of iron, pooling in the creases of Elias Thorne’s palm as he held the brass key to the estate. He had been a customs inspector for thirty years, a man who weighed cargo and checked seals, but lately his hands felt like they belonged to a scribe who had forgotten how to stop writing. The stain had been there for three years, appearing only when his...
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