The Faded Alibi
The black gate stood at the end of the gravel drive, its iron bars twisted into a knot that defied geometry. Arthur Vane woke with the taste of rust on his tongue, the cold of the manor seeping through the sheets to his bones. It was 1893, and the weight of the Vane family debt had grown so heavy that the very air in the house felt compressed, ready to burst. He rose from the bed, his joints...
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