The Wistful Cipher
The fog did not merely sit upon the cobblestones of Old London Bridge; it possessed them, a thick, grey maw that swallowed the gaslights one by one until the city was nothing but a hollowed-out ribcage of stone and shadow, a place where the air tasted of rust and old secrets, and I, Elias Thorne, a man who had built his entire identity on the precise measurement of weight and value, found...
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