The Wistful Letter
The cold does not merely chill the blood in this place; it calcifies it. You remember the sensation of the iron bars against your cheek, the metallic taste of fear that coated your tongue like rust. You are twelve years old, and you are alone in the cell at the bottom of the Blackwood Asylum, a institution that stands like a tombstone on the hillside above the village of Oakhaven. The air is...
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