The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of soot and stone. You were twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, the distinction having lost its meaning in the months since your father stopped coming home, and you stood in the doorway of the tenement on Oak Street, your shoes slick with mud that had turned...
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