The Wistful Cipher

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2026-08-22 15:08:11 -

The iron gate in the dream was not a barrier but a wound, its bars twisted into a shape that resembled a screaming mouth, and I woke with the taste of rust on my tongue and ink staining the creases of my knuckles, a black stain that scrubbing with pumice stone and lye only seemed to deepen. It was October, 1893, and the rain lashed against the windowpane of my study in a rhythm that felt less...

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