The Wistful Asylum
The paper was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the lemon oil the director used to polish his desk, a scent that sat heavily in the back of Elias’s throat like a swallowed stone. He held the document with hands that had laid ten thousand bricks, hands that knew the weight of a trowel and the precise angle of a chisel, but today they trembled so violently that the ink threatened to...
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