The Wistful Asylum
The frost has taken the glass of the city, turning the streets into a labyrinth of white shards that mirror the sky in a thousand fractured, bleeding pieces, and you walk among them not as a man but as a ghost of duty, your boots crunching on the ice with a sound like bones breaking under the weight of a winter that refuses to end, for in this ancient city where the cobblestones are older than...
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