The Wistful Asylum
The stone of the cell does not breathe, but you feel it expanding and contracting against your back as if the walls themselves were lungs slowly suffocating. You are Elias, forty years old, a warden by title and a prisoner by circumstance, and your hands are currently trembling so violently that you can barely hold the silver brooch to your chest. It is a small thing, a filigree bird with eyes...
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