The Wistful Throne
The snow had stopped, but the cold remained, a physical weight pressing against the frosted glass of the office window. You are Elias, forty-two, a senior archivist at St. Jude’s Asylum, and you have come for a signature. The building, a gothic monstrosity of black stone, feels less like a workplace and more like a second skin, its decay woven into the fibers of your own being after twenty...
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