The Wistful Cipher
The ink is already on your hands, a dark, viscous stain that no amount of scrubbing with lye and salt can lift, and it feels less like dirt and more like the cold, dead weight of the earth itself, sinking into the whorls of your fingerprints as you sit in the center of the white room, the only place left in the world that has not yet been swallowed by the silence. You are the Keeper, the last...
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