The Distant Summer
The iron gates of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Insane were not merely locked; they were sealed by a force that felt less like steel and more like the solidified judgment of God. Thomas Whitmore stood before them, his uniform pressed to a razor’s edge, the brass buttons catching the weak, amber light of the industrial streetlamps that buzzed like trapped insects. He was a man of forty, with the...
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