The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-18 00:41:19 -

The mud was thick. It sucked at my boots with a wet, hungry sound. I ran. My lungs burned. The air tasted of coal smoke and iron. I held the bird tight against my chest. Its wing was bent. The bone showed through the skin. It was a starling. Small. Black. I knew it was broken. I knew I could not fix it. But I ran. Behind me, the gate of the Ironworks groaned. Mr. Sterling stood there. He was a...

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