The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Penitentiary at Blackwood Ridge groaned against the morning fog, a sound not unlike the cracking of an old man’s knuckles, and you stood there, your hands bound in chains that bit into the skin of your wrists, watching the sun attempt to pierce the grey veil of the valley below. You are a prisoner of your own intellect, or so the warden claims, a man who has looked too long...
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