The Wistful Letter
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Rehabilitation of the Mentally Ill smelled of wet wool, stale coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that seemed to hang in the air like a suspended breath. It was a room designed for containment, its walls lined with padded vinyl that had once been beige but had turned the color of old bruises under the fluorescent lights. In the...
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