The Wistful Asylum
The rain had stopped, but the air in the village of Oakhaven still held the weight of it. It pressed against the windows of the small, rented house on the hill. Inside, Elias Thorne stood at the kitchen table. He was not looking at the view. He was looking at the jar. It was a simple glass jar, the kind once used for pickles. Inside, a pale, gelatinous substance sat suspended in a clear liquid....
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