The Wistful Asylum
The ink is still wet, and the candle burns low, yet my hand shakes as I set down the quill. I write to you, Sir Thomas, from the village of Oakhaven, in the year of our Lord 1240, though it feels less like a date and more like a death sentence. I am a knight of the Crown, bound by oath and blood, yet I find myself staring at a wall that weeps, listening to a sound that is not sound but a...
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