The Golden Scar
The sky above the iron-ribbed vault of the Sanatorium for the Wandering Soul did not darken with night, for there was no night here, only a perpetual, bruised twilight that pressed against the leaded glass like a living thing, a heavy, violet hand that sought to crush the light from within. It was a place suspended in the amber of a forgotten century, where the air tasted of ozone and dried...
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