The Wistful Cipher
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, industrial fog that clung to the brickwork of the Blackwood Asylum like a second skin. Elias Thorne stood before the iron gates, his coat heavy with moisture, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the accusation that had hung over him for three years. He was not a killer, he told himself, though the...
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