The Wistful Petal
The ink bled into the cheap paper of the intake form, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under Elias Thorne’s thumb. He was twelve years old, small for his age, and his fingers were stained permanently with the violet dye of the asylum’s ledger books. He worked the night shift at the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Incurable, a job that paid him two shillings a week and allowed him to sit in the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews