The Wistful Asylum
Could a house hold a grudge? Maria Cortes stood in the doorway of the library, her hand resting on the mahogany doorframe, listening to the walls breathe a sound that was not wind. The light from the single lamp was failing, casting long, jagged shadows across the floorboards, and in that dimness, the voice of her childhood self seemed to rise from the plaster, accusing her of cowardice, a...
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