The Wistful Asylum
The air in the library smelled of wet slate and old dust, a scent that seemed to seep into the marrow of your bones before you had even crossed the threshold. You were not meant to be here. The gate had been locked, the chain rusted shut, yet you had slipped through the gap in the stone wall, your scholar’s coat heavy with the rain that had fallen all night. You were a man of letters, a keeper...
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