The Wistful Cipher
The frost on the windowpane had formed a web of delicate, crystalline veins, and I watched them shatter under the weight of the morning light. It was a quiet violence, the way the ice cracked and sloughed off the glass, leaving only a damp, cold residue. I stood in the center of the long, vaulted room of the Ministry of Records, my hands pressed flat against the polished oak of my desk. The...
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