The Wistful Asylum
The air in the manor house did not merely stagnate; it rotted, a thick, sweet cloying scent of overripe apples and wet earth that seemed to settle in the lungs and refuse to be exhaled, a physical weight that pressed against the chest of every soul who dared to cross the threshold of the Whitmore estate, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead had long since dissolved into...
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