The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-21 19:26:51 -

The rain fell upon the slate roof of the asylum with a steady, rhythmic persistence that Thomas Bradshaw could no longer distinguish from the sound of his own blood. He sat in the corner of the ward, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the patch of grey sky visible through the high, barred window. The air smelled of wet wool, lye soap, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. It was the...

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