The Wistful Asylum
You stand before the mirror of the city, a vast, cracked pane of glass that reflects not your face but the hollowed-out streets of the old world, where the fog does not lift but thickens, pressing against your eyes like a wet woolen cloth, and you are told, in a voice that sounds like dry leaves skittering over cobblestones, that you must remove the coat. It is a heavy thing, this coat,...
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