The Wistful Asylum
I woke with the taste of iron and old paper on my tongue. The air in the room was thick, not with dust, but with a static charge that made the hair on my arms stand up. I was standing in a corridor that stretched out into a white, featureless void. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror sheen, and my reflection stared back at me from the stone. But the reflection was wrong. It wore a...
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