The Faded Alibi
Ricardo Bautista remembers the weight of the pen before he remembers the ink. It is a heavy, brass-nibbed thing, the kind the old men at the exchange used to sign away futures with. I am holding it now, in the damp dark of the archive, and the metal is cold against my thumb, a small, sharp ache that travels up the bone. The year is 1945, though the war feels less like a conflict and more like a...
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