The Wistful Asylum
The fog did not merely sit upon the grounds of St. Jude’s; it inhabited them, a thick, gray wool that strangled the stone walls and softened the edges of the world into a blur of indistinct shapes. It was a place where time had pooled and stagnated, a fortress of grey slate and iron grates that stood isolated on a cliff face above the churning, black waters of the North Sea. In the year of our...
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