The Wistful Cipher
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Institute smells of roasted lamb and old paper. You sit at the far end of the long oak table, your chest tight with the familiar ache of a heart that is slowly giving out. Around you, the staff laughs, clinking glasses of cheap wine, celebrating the annual archive review. But your eyes are fixed on the empty chair at the head of the table, where Silas used to...
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