The Wistful Asylum
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the moor and turned the packed earth into a sticky, sucking mud that fought against every step we took, forcing us to slow our pace to a grinding, deliberate crawl that felt less like walking and more like being dragged through a viscous, cold sludge by an unseen hand, and I held the satchel tight...
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