The Wistful Cipher
The town of Harrowgate celebrated its centennial with a grandeur that felt less like joy and more like a fever dream, the air thick with the scent of burnt sugar and the metallic tang of old blood. It was a night in October when the mist rolled in from the lake, clinging to the eaves of the Victorian houses like a shroud, and the streets were paved with lights that reflected in the puddles,...
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