The Wistful Asylum
The fluorescent lights in the basement of the St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center hummed a low, electric note that I felt in my teeth, a vibration that seemed to sync with the erratic beating of my heart as I stood before Dr. Aris Thorne, holding the heavy, water-stained ledger in my hands. We had been sitting in this windowless room for three hours, the air thick with the scent of old paper and...
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