The Wistful Grid
The iron gate groaned against its rusted hinges, a sound like a bone snapping in the dark, and I stood there in the freezing November rain, holding the lantern up to keep the shadows at bay, knowing that the thing inside was not a ghost, nor a demon, nor a punishment from a God who had long since forgotten our names, but a simple, terrible, mechanical truth that I had spent the last three days...
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