The Wistful Cipher
The fire started in the thatch of the old mill before the sun had fully cleared the treeline, a sudden, violent eruption of orange that swallowed the silence of the valley. It was not a natural thing, nor was it the clumsy work of a drunkard; it was precise, a knife cut in the dark, and the smoke rose in a column so straight and black it looked like a finger pointing at God. By the time the...
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