The Wistful Cipher

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2026-08-22 16:42:19 -

“Stop writing. You’re bleeding through again.” I looked up from the desk. The clerk, a boy named Silas with ink-stained cuffs, was trembling. He held his hands up, palms out, as if to show me they were empty. They were not. The black stain had moved from his wrists to his elbows, a dark tide rising up his forearms. I was Thomas, a constable of forty years, and I had spent the last three days...

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