The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 00:58:21 -

The rain hit the mud with a flat, rhythmic slap. It was cold. Not the crisp cold of winter, but the wet, biting chill that seeps into the marrow. I checked the bolt on my rifle. Click. Safe. I checked it again. Click. "Stop fidgeting, Miller," said Sergeant Halloway. His voice was gravel in a tin cup. He didn’t look up from his map. The paper was yellowed, soft with age and sweat. "We are not...

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