The Faded Chronicle
I woke with the taste of iron and old blood on my tongue, the metallic tang of a wound that no longer exists. The room was a box of gray light, the kind that settles in industrial cities where the sky has forgotten how to be blue. I am Elias Thorne, and I have been here for three weeks, or perhaps three months. Time in this asylum does not move in lines; it moves in circles, like the gears of a...
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