The Wistful Show
The steam from the boiler room clung to the walls of the Sanitarium like a second skin, thick and sulfurous, tasting of copper and old rain on my tongue as I walked the corridor toward the Director’s office, my boots heavy with the damp that had soaked through the soles during my shift at the intake gate where the new admissions were always shivering, their eyes wide with a terror that I...
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