The Wistful Cipher
The brass key is heavy, cold, and stained with the rust of a decade’s neglect, and I hold it in my palm as if it were a live coal, turning it over to examine the jagged teeth that will either save my life or condemn me to the street. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose career in customs enforcement ended in a scandal so quiet it was almost polite, and I sit in the rotting attic...
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