The Wistful Cipher
The knife is in your hand. The handle is slick with blood that is not yours. It is black. It is cold. It smells of iron and wet earth. You are in the cellar. The air is thick. It tastes of mold and old bones. You do not know how you got here. You do not know why you are holding the blade. Your heart hammers against your ribs. A violent drum. A trapped bird. You look down. The floor is stone....
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