The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the window of your office does not fall so much as it presses, a persistent, gray thumb against the glass, blurring the view of the iron bridges and the soot-stained tenements of the city below. You are sitting in the dark, the single bulb of your desk lamp casting a harsh, cone-shaped light onto the file spread before you, the paper yellowed and brittle with the age of the...
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