The Wistful Cipher
The stone town breathes dust and diesel. Dawit Alemu stood in the Ministry of Records, the smell of damp limestone and old paper clinging to his wool coat, and knew the system had already swallowed him whole. He was thirty-four, a junior archivist with a wage that barely covered rent, and he held in his pocket a glass vial that hummed with a cold, blue light. Inside, a moth pulsed, its wings...
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