The Distant Nightmare
The letter from the Asylum of St. Jude arrived on a Tuesday, the paper crisp and cold in my hands, the ink black as a bruise. It was not a notification of visitation, but a denial, citing new institutional protocols that prioritized state control over family bonds. I read it three times, my eyes tracing the bureaucratic phrasing until the words blurred, but the meaning remained sharp: Director...
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