The Wistful Letter
The rain against the slate roof of St. Jude’s Asylum sounds like a thousand fingernails scratching against the inside of a coffin, a rhythmic, wet percussion that has become the only clock by which you measure the hours of your twelve years, and in the small, windowless room that serves as your quarters, you sit on the edge of the narrow cot, holding a ceramic cup so tight your knuckles have...
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