The Wistful Cipher
The bottle was warm, which was the first wrong thing, for glass should hold the chill of the cellar where it had sat for five years, but it radiated a low, animal heat against my palm, a warmth that felt less like temperature and more like a pulse. I am Elias Thorne, and I am fifty-two years old, and my left hand has begun to betray me with a tremor that no amount of steady breathing can quell,...
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