The Wistful Atlas
The iron bars did not creak, a fact that Edmund Holloway found more terrifying than the sound they made in the winter, for the silence implied a maintenance that was thorough, indifferent, and absolute. He sat on the stone floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, the cold seeping through the wool of his trousers and settling into the marrow of his bones, a sensation that had become so familiar...
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