The Pale Garden
The wind did not howl in the Kessler Correctional Facility; it whispered, a low, sibilant friction against the reinforced concrete that hummed through the soles of my boots and settled into the marrow of my bones, a vibration that I had long since ceased to identify as anything other than the persistent, grinding presence of the institution itself. I stood at the edge of the perimeter fence, a...
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