The Wistful Asylum
October 14th The rain had stopped, but the air in the east wing still smelled of wet concrete and old copper. I stood by the ventilation grate, listening to the hum of the HVAC system, my hand resting on the cold iron railing. It was a quiet shift, the kind that should have felt peaceful, but the building was whispering again. It was Margaret’s name, distinct and clear, sliding through the...
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