The Wistful Cipher
The heavy brass locket sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, its surface cool and unyielding against the calluses of his hands. It was a simple thing, oval in shape, engraved with a pattern of interlocking vines that seemed to grow endlessly over the metal, a design that suggested a life perpetually in bloom yet never reaching fruit. Elias turned it over, feeling the weight of the hinge, the slight give...
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