The Distant Metropolis
The cold in the infirmary of St. Jude’s Asylum is not a temperature but a presence, a living thing that wraps around your bones and squeezes until you forget you have them, and you sit there in the corner of the examination room with your back against the damp stone, listening to the clock on the wall tick a rhythm that feels less like time passing and more like a slow, deliberate counting down...
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