The Wistful Asylum
The rain fell in sheets, a grey curtain against the windowpane of the study. Inside, the air was still, thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of iron. Thomas sat in the high-backed chair, his hands resting on the arms, fingers pale as bone. He was waiting. He had been waiting for years, though it felt like a single, suspended breath. The house breathed around him. It...
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