The Pale Garden
The iron gates of the Ashworth Asylum did not open; they parted, like the lips of a dying mouth, revealing the pale, steam-choked courtyard beyond. You stand on the other side of the wire, your fingers numb against the cold, jagged mesh. The air here tastes of ozone and rust, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. It is 1893, and the world is shifting under the weight of its own...
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