The Distant Wound
The iron gates of the Sanatorium for the Unstable Mind did not creak; they hummed, a low, subsonic vibration that Edward Ashworth felt in his molars long before he saw the structure rise from the fog. It was a cathedral of industrial decay, a labyrinth of riveted steel and glass that seemed less like a building and more like a machine designed to digest dissent. Edward, a historian of modest...
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