The Wistful Asylum
The iron weight rests in your hand. It is cold. It is heavy. It does not care that your fingers are shaking. It does not care that the rain has soaked through your coat. You are a fighter. You are the last line of defense against the hunger that gnaws at the walls of your soul. The hunger is not for food. It is for proof. Proof that you are still there. Proof that the silence in the house is...
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