The Wistful Cipher
The rain hammered against the slate roof of St. Jude’s Asylum, a relentless drumming that drowned out the sound of Elias Thorne’s breathing as he stood in the courtyard, clutching a forged letter to his chest. He was forty-two, though the last two decades had aged him into a man who looked sixty, his face a map of lines carved by a grief he had refused to name. In his hand, the paper was damp...
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