The Wistful Cipher
The rain fell on the cobblestones of the Old Quarter. It fell with a steady, mechanical precision. The drops struck the stone and fractured into silver mist. This was the morning of the reckoning. The city held its breath. The air tasted of wet iron and old paper. Silas Vane sat in his study. He was a man of sharp angles and quiet dread. His hands trembled. He looked at the clock. The second...
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