The Wistful Asylum
The fog in the valley did not rise; it sat, thick and gray as wool, pressing against the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude until the very mortar wept moisture. It was a place where time had curdled, where the shadow of the bell tower fell across the courtyard like a bruise that would not fade. Here, the air smelled of damp limestone, rotting wood, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood....
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