The Wistful Asylum
The demolition permit was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored stock, folded twice, resting in Elias Thorne’s left palm. The paper felt dry and brittle, like dead leaves, but the building behind him felt wet. It was a low, subsonic hum, not a sound so much as a pressure, vibrating against the enamel of his teeth. Elias adjusted his grip, the corner of the paper cutting a small, white line...
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