The Wistful Cipher
The iron gate did not creak, but it screamed, a high-pitched wail of rusted metal that tore through the silence of the courtyard as I forced it open. I was not the first to enter, nor would I be the last, but I was the only one who knew that the house was not a refuge, but a trap. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood, a perfume I had spent twenty years trying to...
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