The Wistful Cipher
Thorne. The name was called out by the wind, or perhaps by my own fraying nerves, but it felt like a summons from the dead. I stood on the corner of Miller Street, the fog pressing against my chest like a wet wool blanket, and checked my watch. 4:14 AM. The apothecary’s door was oak, banded with iron that had rusted into a brown crust, and I had the key in my pocket, a brass thing I had stolen...
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