The Wistful Cipher
You are the one who finds the blood. It is not bright red. It is dark, dried, and crusted into the weave of the wool coat. You do not think. You feel a cold snap in the chest, a tightening that has nothing to do with the November air. You are a detective. You are a man of procedure. But the coat is yours. No, wait. It is not yours. It is the coat of the boy. The boy who is gone. The town is...
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