The Faded Guest
The iron gate groans under your weight as you drag the last crate of coal into the basement of the Whitmore Sanatorium, the sound a long, metallic scream that seems to vibrate through the soles of your boots and up into your teeth. Your hands are raw, the skin split and weeping red against the black dust, but you do not stop, cannot stop, because the cold is a living thing here, a tenant that...
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