The Wistful Cipher
The rain has been falling on the gable end of the house for three days. It is a thin, persistent drizzle that does not wash the world clean but instead grays it, turning the vibrant green of the hedgerows into a bruised, sickly olive. You sit at the heavy oak desk in the center of the room, the wood polished to a mirror shine by decades of hands that have now mostly vanished into the earth. The...
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