The Wistful Cipher
The porcelain bowl sat on the center of the heavy oak desk, a pristine white disc of fragility that seemed to hold the weight of the room. Elias Thorne did not touch it. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, his fingers interlaced until the knuckles whitened, watching the way the afternoon light caught the slight irregularity in its rim. It was a perfect specimen, a ceramic relic from a...
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