The Wistful Asylum
The cellar of the old Pemberton house smelled of wet stone and aging wine, a scent that Thomas had once found comforting but now found suffocating. He was forty-two, a junior archivist in a department that valued silence above all else, and he was currently staring at a ledger from 1923, his fingers trembling slightly against the brittle paper. The dust motes danced in the single beam of light...
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