The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum groaned open, a sound like a dying whale, and Elias Thorne stepped onto the wet gravel path with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man who has walked too many miles in too little time. The air tasted of rain and rust, thick with the industrial dampness of the late nineteenth century, and the skyline above the asylum’s high walls was a jagged silhouette of...
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