The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 20:19:36 -

The room was small. The walls were peeling. I sat in the chair. My father’s chair. It smelled of damp wool and old paper. I held the vial. It was glass. Blue glass. It caught the weak light from the window. The liquid inside was clear. It moved slowly. Like honey. Or like time. My father was dead. Three days. The doctor said it was the lungs. The coal dust. He had breathed it for forty years....

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