The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the windowpane sounds like a thousand small fists knocking, a relentless, rhythmic pounding that matches the throb in your temple. You sit in the corner of the observation room, your knees drawn up to your chest, the cold concrete seeping through the thin fabric of your trousers. The air smells of wet wool and antiseptic, a sterile scent that fails to mask the underlying rot of...
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