The Wistful Asylum
The rain had not stopped for three days, a grey, industrial curtain that turned the streets of Manchester into rivers of mud and oil, and I stood in the doorway of the barracks, watching a single, brittle oak leaf shiver and tear as the wind finally caught it, shattering it into pale, useless fragments that dissolved into the gutter, a small, violent death that seemed to mark the end of...
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