The Distant Promise
The air inside the Sanatorium was not merely cold; it was a preservative, a sterile chill that suspended the dust motes in a perpetual, stagnant dance. Margaret Holloway sat in the corner of the observation room, her posture rigid, her fingers intertwined with the precision of a surgeon inspecting an incision. The room was a cube of white tile and glass, a sealed vessel designed to contain both...
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