The Wistful Asylum
You wake not to the sound of the rooster or the creak of the floorboards, but to a scent that does not belong to the damp, stone-walled room where you have been sleeping. It is the smell of wet loam and crushed thyme, a pungent, earthy perfume that cuts through the stale air of your exile. You are no longer the man who cowers in the shadow of the archway, trembling before the gaze of the...
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