The Wistful Asylum
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of the precinct’s courtyard into a slick, treacherous mirror, and you stood there, Elias Thorne, your uniform soaked through to the skin, listening to the wet, rhythmic dripping from the eaves as the sound of your own breathing became a foreign, harsh intruder in the silence of the corridor behind...
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