The Wistful Cipher
The ink bled from the brass handle, thick and black, pooling on the velvet seat before I could pull my hand away. I wiped it on my trousers, the wool darkening instantly, but the stain spread, defying the cotton. It was three in the morning on the night train to Edinburgh, and the carriage was empty save for the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and the smell of stale tobacco. I held the sealed...
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