The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-19 06:21:36 -

The iron gate shrieked. It was a sound like tearing metal, a scream against the sky. I stood before it, my hands locked in a fist, my knuckles white. The air tasted of rust and coal smoke. It was November in Blackwood County. The wind cut through my coat. I was not a man who feared noise. I had heard the world break for forty years. But this gate was different. This gate was the mouth of the...

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