The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the windowpane was a steady, rhythmic tapping, like fingers checking for a pulse. I sat in the chair by the radiator, watching the steam rise from the metal fins, a thin white ghost that dissolved into the damp air of the office. The building stood on the corner of Fifth and Main, a squat, brutalist block of concrete and glass that had been built in the fifties and never quite...
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