The Wistful Asylum
The road to the city was not a road. It was a scar. It cut through the marshland, a ribbon of packed mud and gravel that bled brown into the gray sky. Elias drove his cart with a whip that snapped like a dry bone. He did not look back. To look back was to admit that the distance mattered. It did not. The cart groaned under the weight of the timber. Oak. Heavy, dark, and silent. It smelled of...
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