The Faded Portrait
The fever did not break so much as it dissolved into the humid, stagnant air of the ward, a thickening mist that settled upon the skin of Margaret Holloway and her mother, Eleanor, like a second, heavier coat. They were not in a hospital, not in the sterile, white-tiled silence of the modern age, but in a sanitarium of indeterminate era, a place where the boundaries between the living and the...
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