The Wistful Cipher
The river, that ancient and indifferent vein of the valley, has turned the color of bruised plums in the dying light, its surface a shifting mosaic of slate and ash that mirrors the soot-stained sky above the foundry where you have spent the last three months breathing in iron dust and the metallic taste of your own failure. You stand now at the edge of the wetland, the mud sucking at your...
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