The Faded Alibi
March 14. "Thomas, get in here." The voice was thin, brittle as dry twigs, cutting through the hum of the vacuum cleaner. I stopped the machine. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the dust motes swirling in the afternoon light. I walked into the study. My father sat in the wingback chair, his hands folded in his lap, fingers stained with the dark ink of his final years. On the...
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