The Wistful Asylum
The vase shatters, not with a bang, but with a sigh, a long, brittle exhale that seems to pull the air out of the room and leave it tasting of dust and old rain. You are standing in the hallway of the Whitmore estate, your feet bare on the cold oak, and in your hands you hold nothing but the memory of the weight, the smooth, curved belly of the porcelain that was once whole. It is a Tuesday....
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