The Wistful Asylum
The fever took my brother’s voice before it took his breath, leaving behind only a silence so vast it seemed to swallow the very walls of our chamber. I remember the way the light in the room changed that afternoon, turning from a pale, honest gold into a bruised, sickly amber that clung to the curtains like a shroud. It was a quiet kind of disaster, the kind that does not shatter glass but...
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