The Faded Alibi
Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and singular, cut from the ambient hum of the station’s HVAC system. I stood in the center of the corridor, the linoleum cold through the soles of my boots, holding the brass compass in my left hand. It was a small thing, no larger than a pocket watch, its casing dented from years of service. The needle inside did not point north. It pointed backward, a...
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