The Wistful Cipher
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Silas’s head hit the floorboards with a sound like a wet sack of grain, and I was still holding the pen, the nib scratching a meaningless line into the margin, while the old man lay there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his hand gripping a torn page from my own records so tightly that the paper had bled into the creases of his knuckles. I dropped...
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