The Wistful Asylum
The dream begins with the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears, a thick, red static that drowns out the clatter of the iron gate sliding open. You are standing in the courtyard of St. Jude’s, but the sky above is not the grey, rain-slicked London sky you know, but a bruised purple, swollen with stars that pulse like trapped hearts. You are not the headmaster. You are not the man who...
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