The Wistful Cipher
The air in the village of Oakhaven hung heavy, thick with the scent of rotting apples and the metallic tang of old blood, a suffocating fog that had settled over the cobblestones for seven days and refused to lift, swallowing the lantern light until the entire town existed in a bruised and purple twilight where the boundaries between the living and the dead had long since dissolved into a...
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