The Faded Alibi
The fog does not lift; it thickens, a woolen shroud that swallows the iron spires of the Milltown Asylum for the Nervous. You stand at the gate, the cold biting at your knuckles, watching the steam rise from the ventilation stacks like the exhalations of a sleeping giant. It is a place of gears and ghosts, where the rhythm of the loom in the basement mimics the beating of a heart that has long...
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