The Wistful Asylum
The ink smears again. It always does. Your hands are shaking, Elias, and the paper at St. Jude’s is cheap, absorbent, like the skin of a dying man. It is November 2024, and you have been here for three months. You are forty years old, an architect who built things that stood, or so you thought, until the tremor started in your left hand and then the right, and then your mind began to fray at...
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