The Wistful Asylum
The fire took the oak in the east wing first. I watched from the window. The wood groaned. It split. Light poured out. My name is Elias. I am not a man. I am a stain. A whisper in the walls. For three hundred years, I have lived in this house. I was born of the dust and the dark. The air feeds me. The silence keeps me. The house is old. The stones are cold. The garden is dead. There is a tree...
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