The Wistful Cipher
The oak tree in the courtyard had shed its last leaf. It hung there, a single, brown parchment against the grey sky, trembling in the wind. Elias watched it from the window of the cellar. He was not a man who looked at trees. He was a man who looked at gears. Or rather, he looked at the absence of gears. The house was a machine of stone and mortar, and it was broken. The rain began to fall. It...
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