The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a persistent, grey mist that clung to the cobblestones of the alleyway behind the St. Jude’s Orphanage, soaking through the thin wool of Elias Thorne’s coat until the fabric felt less like clothing and more like a second, damp skin that refused to peel away. He stood at the threshold of the cellar door, his breath coming in short,...
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