The Wistful Cipher
The key was warm in my hand, iron heated by the midday sun. It fit the lock of the east wing, a door I had not opened in thirty years. I pushed. The hinges screamed, a dry, metallic shriek that cut through the silence of the abandoned manor. Inside, the air was still, thick with the dust of centuries and the scent of rotting oak. This was the place where my brother, Arthur, had vanished. This...
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