The Pale Garden
The corridor of St. Jude’s Asylum smelled of boiled linseed oil and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had seeped into the pores of Elias Thorne’s skin over the four decades he had served as its Warden. He walked with the rigid, measured pace of a man who had long ago traded his soul for the architecture of order, his footsteps echoing against the damp stone floor as he approached the...
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