The Wistful Asylum
The cold does not bite here; it seeps, a slow, viscous intrusion that settles into the marrow before you can name the sensation, and you stand alone in the center of the rotunda, the stone floor beneath your feet humming with a frequency that feels less like sound and more like a physical pressure against your eardrums, while the air tastes of copper and old rain, and you realize with a...
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