The Wistful Asylum
The rain hits the tin roof with a rhythmic, metallic persistence. You count the drops. One. Two. Three. You have always counted things. It is a habit born of discipline, of the need to impose order on chaos. You are sitting in the drawing room of the Ashworth estate. The air smells of damp wool and old paper. You are here for a reason. Or so you think. You are a soldier. Not a common foot...
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