The Wistful Asylum
Did anyone hear the bell? The sound had been cut short, a sharp crack like a branch snapping under snow. I sat in the damp corner of my cell, the iron bars cold against my wrists, and listened to the silence that followed. It was a heavy silence, the kind that settles into the lungs before a storm breaks. The magistrate’s accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating: theft of the winter...
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