The Golden Master
The rain had been falling on the slate roof of the Blackwood Asylum for thirty-two years, a relentless, gray drumroll that seemed to seep into the very bones of the building and into the men who lived within its walls, and I stood in the corridor, my boots slick with mud and the cold, watching the steam rise from the vents in a way that looked like the ghosts of the living trying to escape the...
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