The Wistful Cipher
The ink is dry. It is black. It is permanent. You hold the letter in your hands. Your fingers tremble. Not from cold. The air in the cell is thick. It smells of damp stone and rot. You are in a dungeon. Or a room. It does not matter. The walls are close. The light is dim. A single candle flickers on the table. You watch the flame. It dances. It dies. You strike a match. The spark is bright. It...
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