The Distant Legend
The feast hall of the Ashcroft Asylum for the Insane was not a place of celebration, but a ritual of endurance, held under the heavy, soot-stained skylights of the Victorian wing. Margaret Holloway sat at the long oak table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, watching the steam rise from the porridge bowls that smelled of boiled leather and damp earth. The air was thick, a physical weight...
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