The Wistful Letter
The iron gate of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane did not creak, nor did it rust, for it was a thing of new steel and modern ambition, a monolithic slab of grey that rose from the fog like a tombstone for the living, and yet within its walls, where the air tasted of wet stone and medicinal ether, there stood a chapel that had been there since before the asylum itself, a structure of ancient,...
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