The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-22 10:48:55 -

The wind howls through the gaps in the masonry here at Harrowgate, a sound like a dying man’s breath, and I write this to you, old friend, from the top of the tower where I have finally begun my work. It is November of 1893, and I am forty years old, though I look in the mirror and see a man of sixty, his hair white and his hands trembling with a palsy that no amount of gin can steady. I have...

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