The Wistful Asylum
The rain had been falling against the windowpanes of the house for three days, a relentless, percussive drumming that turned the air inside into a thick, suspended soup of damp wool and old paper, and I sat at the mahogany desk, my hands trembling so violently that the fountain pen slipped from my grip and rolled across the polished surface with a sound like a small, dying creature, a sharp,...
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