The Wistful Cipher
The rain hits the cobblestones of the alley with a sound like tearing linen. You do not look up. You keep your head down. The hood of your grey cloak is pulled tight against the chill, but the cold is not in the air. It is in the bone. It is in the debt. You are running. Not fast. You cannot run fast. Your legs are leaden, heavy with the weight of years spent kneeling in the damp stone of the...
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