The Wistful Cipher
The dream began with the smell of wet chalk and the sound of a pen scratching against the cold, unyielding surface of a slate, a rhythmic, desperate scratching that seemed to cut through the very fabric of the night air, dragging Elias Thorne through a corridor of endless, grey offices where the light was not natural but a sickly, fluorescent hum that vibrated in his teeth. In the dream, the...
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