The Wistful Asylum
The ledger sat on the desk, its spine cracked and held together by a strip of grey tape that had long since lost its adhesive bite. Three years. That was the weight of the silence in the East Wing, and it was a weight Elias Thorne had been carrying in his lower back for thirty-six months. He counted the hours since the last entry, a habit born of boredom that had curdled into obsession. One,...
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