The Wistful Asylum
I held the brass key in my palm, the metal cold against the sweat of my skin, turning it over and over until the edges blurred. It was a small, unremarkable thing, a master key for Ward 4, but in my hand it felt heavy with a weight that had nothing to do with mass. The corridor outside was silent, save for the low, rhythmic thrum of the ventilation system, a sound that had become the baseline...
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