The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-19 23:10:01 -

The train hissed into the station, a long, shuddering exhalation of steam that smelled of coal and old iron. I stepped down onto the platform, the gravel crunching softly under my boots, a sound that felt less like arrival and more like a fracture spreading through ice. It was November, though the year had begun to slip away from me, blurred by the relentless erosion of my own memory. I was...

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