The Wistful Asylum
The rain did not fall so much as it stood, a grey curtain woven from the smoke of a thousand chimneys, sealing the streets of Hollow Creek in a damp, suffocating embrace that tasted of iron and wet wool. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the threshold of the Ashworth manor, his rifle stock heavy against his shoulder, the wood slick with condensation that felt less like water and more like the cold...
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