The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey veil that smothered the cobblestones of Oakhaven in a silence so profound it seemed to press against the eardrums, a heavy, wet nothingness that swallowed the sound of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots as he walked the perimeter of the old library, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword not for defense but for the comfort of the familiar...
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