The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the glass of the intake cell was a rhythmic, maddening drumbeat that Elias Thorne had tried for twenty years to ignore, but tonight it felt less like weather and more like an accusation. He stood in the corridor, his reflection warped in the steel door, watching the new intake sit on the cot, staring at a point on the floor that did not exist. Julian was young, perhaps...
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