The Wistful Asylum
The glass on the parlor window was not merely cracked; it had surrendered. It lay in a shattered constellation on the hardwood floor, a mosaic of frozen light that caught the grey afternoon and threw it back in jagged, meaningless shards. I stood in the center of the room, my hands still raised in the posture of the woman who had thrown the stone, though the stone was long gone and the window...
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