The Wistful Cipher
The rain in the Blackwood Valley did not fall; it hung, a grey curtain of industrial soot and mist that tasted of copper and old ash. You walked through it, your boots sucking in the mud of the abandoned rail line, the rhythm of your steps the only sound in a world that had forgotten how to speak. You were a man of questions, a detective by trade, though the last case you had solved for a...
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