The Faded Road
The rain does not wash the slate clean. It only makes the grime slick, turning the grey stone of the corridor into a mirror that reflects your own hollow eyes. You are standing in the infirmary of the Blackwood Asylum, a place built in the age of steam and iron, where the air tastes of coal dust and antiseptic. You are a guard here. You have been a guard here for three years. Your uniform is...
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