The Wistful Cipher
The morning bell in the village of Oakhaven did not ring so much as it exhaled, a low, mournful vibration that traveled through the cobblestones and into the soles of Elara’s boots. She stood at the window of the infirmary, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass, watching the mist settle over the valley like a burial shroud. Inside, the air smelled of lavender water, old paper, and...
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