The Wistful Asylum
The ink on the intake form bled into the heavy bond paper, a dark bruise spreading under the name Silas Vane. You watched it spread, the fibers of the document surrendering to the wet, black weight of the bureaucratic record. It was your final month. Twenty-two years of service in the State Penitentiary at Blackwood, and all that stood between you and the full pension you had calculated every...
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