The Wistful Cipher
The house holds its breath. It is a deep, dry sound. You know it. You have known it since you were a child, sitting on the cold stone steps, watching the dust motes dance in the slant of afternoon light. Now you are old. Your hands are knotted things, swollen with age and labor. You stand in the hallway of the Whitmore estate, the air thick with the scent of rotting wood and old paper. The rain...
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