The Wistful Asylum
The iron key turns in the lock with a sound like a bone breaking, a sharp, dry crack that echoes down the stone corridor. You hear it before you see the keeper, a man named Silas whose face is a map of old bruises and newer sorrows. He does not look at you. He never looks at you. He simply places the key on the ledge, a small, cold weight, and walks away, his boots scraping against the...
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