The Distant Blade
The memo was typed on cream-colored stationery, the ink a faded, institutional gray that smelled of dust and old decisions. It sat on the edge of my desk, a thin rectangle of authority that had cost me my sleep for the past three nights. Sheriff Miller’s signature was a jagged scrawl, barely legible, a finality that cut deeper than any blade. I had wanted to clear my father’s name. That was the...
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