The Wistful Grid
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum does not rust. It does not, as all other things in this damp corner of the world should, decay. It stands in the center of the ward, a massive, circular structure of blackened metal that hums with a frequency I can feel in my teeth. It is a sound like a held breath, low and resonant, vibrating through the stone floor and into the soles of my boots. I am...
0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews