The Wistful Cipher
The ledger lay open on the scarred oak counter, its pages swollen with the damp of the harbor air, and I, Elias Thorne, apothecary of the fog-choked port city of Veridia, stared at the column of red ink that marked my wife Clara’s dwindling vitality as if it were a debt I had personally incurred. The entry for the wistful root was circled three times, the ink bleeding into the paper like a...
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