The Pale Garden
The mist that settled over the valley of Kestrel’s Hollow was not merely a weather phenomenon, but a living, breathing membrane that sealed the institution of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane and the Infected against the world beyond. It was a pale, suffocating shroud, thick as wool, that tasted of iron and rotting lilies on the tongue, and it had been rising since I first stepped off the...
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