The Wistful Asylum
The steam hissed, a low, ragged sound that scraped against the linoleum floor. Elias Vane wiped his hands on his trousers, the fabric already stiff with sweat and grime. He stood before the hydrotherapy unit, a monstrosity of brass and iron that dominated the center of the ward, its pipes sweating condensation that smelled of rust and old blood. "Is it safe, Elias?" Clara asked. Her voice was...
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