The Wistful Asylum
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the iron gates of St. Jude’s Rest Home for the Chronically Forgotten, blurring the boundary between the wet gravel and the stone until the world seemed to dissolve at the edges. Margaret Holloway stood on the threshold, her breath catching in a throat that felt lined with sandpaper, watching the mist swallow the...
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