The Wistful Asylum
The rain did not fall so much as it descended, a steady, grey curtain of mist that erased the horizon and softened the edges of the world into a blur of wet slate and dying leaf. We were driving toward the estate, the old motorcade winding up the serpentine hillside, the wipers beating a rhythmic, hypnotic lullaby against the windshield. I remember the weight of the silence in the car, the way...
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