The Wistful Cipher
The raven was always there, perched on the left shoulder of the dream, its feathers slick with a rain that never fell. Elias Thorne woke with the weight of it still pressing against his clavicle, the phantom feathers scratching the skin of his neck. It was the year 1893, and the air in the St. Jude’s Asylum archives smelled of mildew and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Elias was thirty-four...
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