The Wistful Asylum
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the city, a thick, grey breath that clung to the cobblestones of the Old Quarter and seeped into the bones of the stone, turning the air into a palpable, humid weight that pressed against the skin like a heavy, wet wool blanket. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his cramped office on the fourth floor of the municipal archives, his back rigid...
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