The Wistful Cipher
The letter lay on the wet stone of the scriptorium floor, its edges curled like dried leaves. Elias Thorne picked it up, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the weight of the ink that seemed to seep into his skin. It was a bill, though no currency was listed, only a sum of years deducted from his life for debts unpaid. He read it twice, the words blurring into a gray smear, and then...
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