The Wistful Silence
The frost had crept into the marrow of the stone walls, a crystalline lattice that mapped the decay of the infirmary with a precision that felt almost surgical. I stood before the great oak door, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the silence that had grown around me over the last three days. The air inside was thick with the scent of dried lavender and antiseptic, a...
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