The Wistful Asylum
The heavy, iron-banded chest sat in the center of the room, a square block of oak that seemed to absorb the dim light of the single tallow candle and hold it there, trapped in the grain like insects in amber. You sat on the floor before it, your back against the cold stone wall of the cellar, your breath misting in the air that had been sealed for decades, and you knew with a certainty that...
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