The Pale Garden
The name is called out in the corridor, sharp and clipped, echoing off the damp stone walls of the Blackwood Asylum’s east wing, and you stop your filing, your fingers still stained with the iron-gall ink of the accession log, to listen for the tone of the voice, which is not quite human, or at least not human in the way you have known it to be for the last three years of your service. You are...
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