The Wistful Asylum
Act I Concepcion Serrano, thirty-two, owed the Asylum of Records a debt that no amount of silence could pay. The building sat in the shadow of the displaced persons center, a prefab structure that smelled of wet wool and old paper, where the air was so still it seemed to hold its breath. Outside, the sky was a hard, blue disc, clear enough that the stars, if they were there, would have offended...
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