The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-17 15:10:52 -

The rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a cold, wet shroud that clung to the brickwork of the old mill in Halloway’s Creek, turning the cobblestones into a slick, treacherous mirror that reflected the jagged, grey sky above, a sky that seemed to have been scraped raw by the wind until it bled a perpetual, bruised twilight over the valley. I stood at the threshold of the police station, my...

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