The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 16:24:00 -

The tower did not stand so much as it remembered standing, its spires of pale, porous stone dissolving into a mist that smelled of wet chalk and old paper, while I sat at the base of it, my hands stained with ink that was not ink but something thicker, colder, and more viscous, a substance that seemed to pull at the very fibers of my being with a gravity that had no name. I had come to this...

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