The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the slate roof of the Ashworth estate is a sound you have learned to count, a rhythmic, ceaseless tapping that marks the passage of hours you cannot afford to waste, as you stand in the dust-choked attic with your hands wrapped around a chisel that costs more than your father’s entire weekly ration of bread. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a man whose fingers know the...
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