The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-18 18:34:20 -

The ink was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound on the heavy parchment, and the smell of iron and dried lavender hung so thick in the air of the library that it felt as though the walls themselves were breathing a slow, suffocating poison. I sat there, my hands trembling not from the cold which had finally begun to seep through the floorboards of our ancestral estate in the misty highlands...

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