The Wistful Asylum
The morning you left the manor, the fog was so thick it felt less like weather and more like a physical barrier, a grey woolen cloth draped over the bones of the city. You walked with your head down, counting your steps to keep the rhythm of your breathing steady. One, two, three, four. The pavement was slick with condensation, reflecting the dim, amber glow of the streetlamps that had not yet...
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