The Faded Alibi
The ink moved. It was a slow, viscous crawl across the parchment, defying the static nature of the page. I watched it trace a line, a signature, my name. Elias Thorne. The letters were fresh, wet, and they pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heat. I am a senior archivist. I have spent twenty years preserving the past, keeping the dry bones of history intact in the cold vaults of the Department. But...
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