The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 02:49:22 -

The rain did not fall; it hovered, a fine, cold mist that clung to the wool of Marcus’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones. He stood at the edge of the moor, the mud sucking at his boots with a wet, viscous sound, and watched the black silhouette of the estate on the hill. It was a place of sharp angles and cold windows, a monument to the vanity of men who believed they could...

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