The Wistful Cipher
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into slick, dark mirrors. You stood before the great glass doors of the Ministry of Archives, your reflection ghostly and fragmented in the pane. You were not a soldier, nor a judge, but a tailor, a man whose hands were stained with chalk and dye, whose life was measured in inches...
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