The Wistful Cipher
The fog rolled off the river like a wet, heavy sheet, settling into the cobblestones of the old dockyards with a silence that felt less like absence and more like a held breath. Thomas Bradshaw woke not with a start, but with a slow, grinding ache in his left shoulder, the kind that lingered from a dream where he had been trying to hold up a collapsing wall. In the dream, the wall was made of...
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