The Wistful Asylum
The jar sits on the windowsill, its glass rim worn smooth by the thumb of a decade, holding not honey or jam, but a thick, viscous slurry of crushed lavender and beeswax that has slowly separated into a grayish, weeping puddle, and you, Thomas, stand before it in the sterile white silence of the dispensary, your fingers hovering over the lid like a pianist afraid to strike a false note, because...
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