The Wistful Cipher
You leave without saying goodbye. The gate closes behind you, and the sound is a slap of iron licked clean by rain. Your hands are empty. Your pockets are empty. Your name is carved in a ledger somewhere beneath the tower, beside the count of your days. You have one letter. You have three coins. You have the ache, deep and familiar as a worn tooth. That is all. It is the same, as before,...
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