The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-18 23:15:10 -

The morning mist clings to the iron gates. You wipe your hands on your apron. The cloth is grey. It is always grey. You work in the infirmary. You have worked here for forty years. The stone walls are cold. The air smells of damp wool and old paper. You are a prisoner. Not by chains. By duty. By silence. Your brother, Elias, is in Ward Four. He is old. His hair is white. It looks like frost on...

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