The Wistful Skyline
The soot of 1912 hung heavy in the air of Blackwood Asylum, a greasy film that coated the lungs and the conscience alike, but it was the silence within the walls that pressed against Elias Thorne’s chest with the weight of a collapsing sky. He stood alone in the corridor of the east wing, his service revolver loose in its holster, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where the plaster was peeling away...
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