The Faded Alibi
The chandeliers in the Blackwood Sanatorium ballroom were heavy with dust and the weight of forty years of unspoken grief, casting a light that felt less like illumination and more like a slow, yellowing bruise upon the walls. I stood at the periphery of the annual board banquet, my silver tray balanced with a precision that was becoming a form of penance, watching the men in their tailored...
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