The Wistful Cipher
The rain had not stopped for three days, and it was in the gray, persistent water that I first understood I was not alone in my grief. I lay in the narrow bed of my flat in Harrowgate, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, and I watched the droplets race down the windowpane like frantic, weeping eyes. They were the only witnesses to my unraveling, the only ones who knew that...
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