The Wistful Asylum
The letter from the Municipal Board arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet with the bureaucratic finality of a verdict. It stated that Blackwood Manor, the estate of my late father Thomas, was structurally unsound and required immediate cessation of occupancy. I read it twice, then held the brass tuning fork to my lips, a habit born of insomnia. It did not sing. It hummed, a low, resonant...
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