The Wistful Silence
The ink on the ledger had not yet dried when the wind began to tear at the shutters of the sanatorium, a rhythmic, skeletal knocking that seemed less like weather and more like a demand for admission. I sat in the chair by the window, my hands resting on the heavy, leather-bound volume, watching the mist coil around the iron railing of the balcony below, erasing the distinction between the...
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