The Wistful Asylum
The rain lashed the windowpane. A thin, gray sheet. Mara stood in the center of the room. She held the broom. Her hands shook. The building was old. Brick. Red. It had seen a century of winters. It stood still. It waited. She was the caretaker. Not the owner. Not the manager. Just the one who kept the dust at bay. The one who fixed the leaks. The one who knew which floorboards creaked. The...
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