The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the windowpanes of the Holloway estate did not sound like water. It sounded like static, a low, humming frequency that vibrated in the teeth and settled into the marrow of the bones. Margaret stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the collar of the white dress. It was a simple thing, cotton and lace, the kind her...
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