The Faded Portrait
The iron gate of St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Ill did not creak; it sighed, a low, mournful exhalation that seemed to rise from the damp earth beneath the cobblestones, carrying the scent of wet rot and old parchment. Inside, the architecture was a labyrinth of grey stone and higher windows, designed to keep the light in check, to ensure that the shadows always held a...
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