The Wistful Cipher
The mirror cracked down the center with a sound like a gunshot, splitting the reflection of my own face into two jagged, trembling halves that stared back at me with the cold indifference of strangers. I stood there, my hand still raised, the brass letter opener clutched in my fist, the metal warm from the grip, the air in the library thick with the dust of centuries and the metallic taste of...
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