The Wistful Asylum
The rain tapped a relentless, rhythmic code against the high, arched windows of the Hall, a sound that had long since ceased to be mere weather and had become the pulse of your confinement. You sat in the corner of the vast, empty chamber, your hands folded in your lap, fingers intertwined until the knuckles turned white. The room smelled of wet stone and old paper, a scent that clung to your...
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