The Wistful Asylum
The letter from the Ministry of Public Works lay on the scarred oak desk, its seal broken, the ink faded to the color of dried blood. Elias Thorne read the stipulation for the third time, his thumb tracing the line that guaranteed his pension upon the completion of the Blackwood Asylum survey, a sum that would allow him to retire to a cottage in Dorset rather than fade into the institutional...
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