The Wistful Cipher
The brass key was warm in Arthur Penhaligon’s palm, the metal heated by the friction of his thumb against the ridges. It was a small, dull thing, no bigger than a thumbnail, but it held the weight of ten years of service and the promise of a pension that would keep the roof over his head in Oakhaven. He turned it in the lock of the shift log, the sound a sharp click in the quiet of the watch...
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