The Golden Crossing
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum groaned against the wet earth, a sound like a dying man clearing his throat, and Silas Thorne felt the vibration travel up through the soles of his boots, into the marrow of his shins. It was raining, a cold, persistent drizzle that turned the gravel path into a slurry of grey mud. Thorne was not a man given to poetry, nor to the whimsical interpretations...
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