The Wistful Cipher
The rain had not stopped for three days, and it seeped into the bones of the old men who sat in the back of the station room, their coats heavy with damp and the smell of wet wool, while I stood before the mirror adjusting the brass buttons of my tunic, each one cold against my fingertips as if it carried the chill of a grave, for I knew that what I was about to do was not an act of war but a...
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