The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the low, bruised sky, a continuous, grey sigh that soaked into the cobblestones of the old quarter until the city itself seemed to be weeping for sins it had long since committed. I stood beneath the awning of a shuttered bookshop, watching a single, brittle oak leaf, stripped of all green vitality, shatter against the wet pavement as a...
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