The Wistful Cipher
The rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain drawn tight against the glass of the tram window. I pressed my forehead against the cold pane, watching the city smear into a watercolor of slate and neon. In my lap, I clutched the only thing I had left of him: his wool cardigan, the one with the fraying cuffs and the single, broken button that had never quite fit the thread....
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