The Wistful Asylum
The iron gates of Blackwood Penitentiary did not creak; they groaned, a low, tectonic sound that seemed to rise from the very earth beneath the cobblestones, a sound that had settled into the marrow of my bones over the last twenty years of service and remained there, a permanent, dull ache that no amount of whiskey or silence could ever fully expunge. I stood at the threshold of the warden’s...
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