The Wistful Asylum
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Sanitarium was not a place of celebration, but a vast, industrial rot where the air hung thick with the scent of sulfur and damp wool, and forty-year-old Elias Thorne sat at the edge of a long table, watching the black resin weep from the ceiling beams in slow, viscous drips that landed on the porcelain plates with a sound like a soft, wet sigh. He had come...
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