The Pale Garden
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Unsettled Mind stood at the edge of the town like a decaying tooth in a white jaw, its windows fogged from the inside by the breath of the living and the dead alike, and on the night of the autumn equinox, when the air smelled of wet rot and distant smoke, I sat at the long table with my hands folded beneath the cloth, waiting for the world to end...
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