The Wistful Asylum
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey water that turned the cobblestones of the lower city into slick, black mirrors. You stood by the window of your office, the glass cold against your forehead, watching the fog swallow the streetlamps one by one until the world outside was nothing but a void, indistinguishable from the interior of your own skull. It...
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