The Wistful Cipher
The dream was always the same, a loop of gray static and the smell of wet concrete, where Margaret stood in the center of a city that did not exist, her hands pressed against a wall of fog that breathed against her palms. She woke to the ceiling of her apartment in Chicago, the rain ticking against the windowpane in a rhythm that felt less like weather and more like a metronome counting down to...
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