The Wistful Atlas
The rain in Ashford didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker, turning the brickwork of the St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Institute into a weeping, swollen thing that seemed to breathe with the damp, cold sigh of a dying man, and as I stood by the window of Room 304 watching the grey water streak down the glass, I could feel the weight of my own hands, those heavy, capable, trembling...
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