The Faded Alibi
The ink in your fountain pen had dried into a brown scab, and you had to press the nib hard against the paper to make it bleed, a small, violent act that mirrored the way you were trying to tear a hole in the official record of the war. You were Elias Thorne, thirty years old, an archivist whose hands smelled of mildew and old glue, and you were standing in the cold, high-ceilinged room of the...
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