The Wistful Cipher
The leather of the ledger was cracked and dry, the spine held together by a thread that frayed under the weight of my thumb. I sat alone in the cramped office at the Metropolitan Police, the November rain of 1904 drumming a relentless, industrial rhythm against the single pane of glass, while the cold, dismissive note from Commissioner Halloway lay open on my desk, its ink still sharp against...
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