The Faded Alibi
Could a man be exiled by his own hands, or only by the ink that bled through them? Pensri Wongwiset stood at the drafting table, the weight of the iron gall ink pressing against his thumb as if the bottle itself were trying to escape, while the drone of the power station outside the sawmill’s shuttered windows vibrated in his teeth, a low, constant hum that felt like the pulse of the machine he...
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