The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 20:39:00 -

The rain hit the slate roof like a thousand small fingers tapping. I sat at my desk. The ink was black. The paper was white. My name was Thomas. I was a clerk. The tower was old. It stood in the center of the square. Stone walls. High windows. A single door. It belonged to the King. Or it belonged to the air. It did not matter. It was there. I looked up. A face looked down. It was my face. But...

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