The Wistful Asylum
The silver tongs in your hand were warm, not from the fire, but from the friction of your own grip, and you pressed them against the back of the Hollow Man’s neck in the mirror, a gesture so precise it felt less like violence and more like a surgeon checking for a pulse. You were Elias Thorne, warden of Blackwood Manor, and you had spent the last three years studying the geometry of the house,...
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