The Wistful Cipher
The clock tower strikes four. You do not look up. You are counting the gears. There are three hundred and twelve. You have counted them a thousand times. The brass is tarnished now. The patina is thick. It looks like dried blood. Or rust. It does not matter. It is old. It is yours. No, not yours. It belongs to the Crown. You are only the keeper. The King is here. You feel him before you see...
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