The Wistful Atlas
The iron gates of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane stood open, a gaping maw of rusted teeth against the gray, soot-stained sky of the industrial district. Thomas Bradshaw walked through them not as a visitor, but as a keeper, his uniform pressed and stiff, the brass buttons catching the dull light like cold eyes. He was a man carved from the same heavy stone as the building itself, his face a...
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