The Wistful Asylum
Elara. The name hit the back of my skull like a stone thrown through a window, sharp and sudden, as the taxi driver in the rain-slicked city of Harrowgate turned his head to check the rearview mirror. I was thirty-two, soaked to the bone, and holding a key that had been cold in my pocket for ten days, the same number of days the bank had given me to settle the mortgage on my late mother’s house...
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