The Wistful Cipher
The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, turning the cobblestones of the square into a slick, black mirror. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the downpour, his coat soaked through, the weight of his badge a heavy iron anchor against his chest. He was not a man of many words, nor of many thoughts, but in this moment, the silence inside him was loud. It was a silence built of stone and...
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