The Distant Journey
The iron gate of Blackwood Asylum groaned. It was a sound of rusted teeth grinding. Rain fell in sheets. Cold. Wet. It soaked through the wool coat. The coat was brown. It had been red once. That was three years ago. Now it was the color of dried blood. Of old mud. Thomas Vane stood in the yard. He held the coat in his hands. It was thin. The elbows were worn through. The buttons were loose....
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