The Wistful Asylum
The rain has a sound in here. It is not the gentle patter you hear on a tin roof in the village, nor the heavy drumming against a windowpane during a summer storm. It is a wet, rhythmic tapping that seems to come from inside the walls, from the plaster itself, as if the building is sweating out the years it has been standing. You are sitting in the corner of the cell, your back against the cold...
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