The Wistful Cipher
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the leaded windows of the monastery, a sound that seemed to seep into the marrow of the stone walls. I stood in the nave, my boots soaking through, staring at the altar where the incense smoke curled in lazy, grey ribbons. I was not a monk. I was an investigator, a man who dealt in the tangible, the...
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