The Wistful Cipher
The rain that evening did not fall so much as it dissolved, a gray, wet mist that clung to the windowpanes of the manor house like a shroud, blurring the boundary between the dry, heated interior of the library and the decaying, industrial twilight of the valley beyond, where the smokestacks of the defunct textile mills stood like broken teeth against a bruised and indifferent sky. You are...
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