The Wistful Cipher
The mainspring lay in my palm, cold and coiled, a thing of steel that felt less like metal and more like a held breath. It was the heart of the Wistful Cipher, the pocket watch that had hummed in my workshop for three years, a low, subsonic vibration that rattled the teeth of anyone who stood too close. I held it up to the gaslight, turning it so the facets caught the yellow flame, and I saw...
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