The Distant Wound
The brass bell above the door of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Aged and the Insane did not ring when you entered, for you had no key and the mechanism was long since rusted into a permanent, silent curl, a frozen scream of metal that had lost its voice decades before the winter that finally broke your spirit, and you stood there in the hallway, clutching the leather satchel that held your...
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