The Faded Alibi
Chapter One The dream is always the same: a fog so thick it has weight, pressing against my chest, and in the mist, my left hand, severed cleanly at the wrist, reaching for me with a grip that feels like cold iron. I wake with the phantom ache in the missing limb, a neural misfire I have learned to ignore, the same way I ignore the rubbish truck’s brakes screeching at dawn, a sound that has...
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