The Pale Door
The air inside the Iron Lung of St. Jude’s Asylum for the Hopeless and the Huddled was not merely stale, but thick with the metallic taste of rust and the sweet, cloying rot of lilies that had been left to die in the corners for weeks, a perfume of decay that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be washed away by the cold, gray light that filtered through the high, barred windows,...
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