The Wistful Cipher
The rain in London did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Whitechapel district into mirrors of broken glass and shadow. I sat in the back of a hansom cab, the leather seat cold against my spine, watching the city bleed grey into the fog. My coat, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that had once been the pride of my wardrobe, now hung on me like...
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