The Wistful Cipher
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected the soot-stained sky and the weary faces of those who walked upon them. I had traveled three days by rail and two by cart to reach this place, driven not by curiosity but by a compulsion that felt less like a desire and more like a hemorrhage I could not stop. I...
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