The Wistful Cipher
The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling glass of my study, a rhythmic drumming that did little to drown out the sound of my own breathing. I held the silver brooch in my hand, its surface cold and heavy, catching the dim light of the desk lamp. It was a simple design, a cluster of wisteria blossoms rendered in polished metal, but to me, it was a tombstone. I had found it in the lining of...
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