The Wistful Asylum
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center for the Elderly smelled of roasted goose and damp wool, a scent that seemed to settle into the very marrow of the bones of the forty-three guests who sat in rigid rows, their silverware clicking against china with a sound like the ticking of a thousand small, indifferent clocks. I sat at the end of the second table, my hands folded in my lap,...
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