The Wistful Asylum
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the Blackwood Asylum with a violence that seemed personal, a relentless drumming that shook the very stones of the corridor where Thomas Vane was pinned to the floor by two orderlies. He was forty years old, a man who had once drawn the lines of cathedrals in his mind and now found those lines twisted into the bars of his own confinement, his...
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