The Pale Shadows
The fire started in the boiler room of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Nervous, a place that smelled permanently of wet wool and iodine, and by the time the alarms began to shriek, the smoke had already climbed the main stairwell, turning the air into a thick, gray soup that choked the lungs of anyone foolish enough to breathe it. I was on the third floor, in the west wing, standing by the window...
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