The Wistful Asylum
The frost has turned the iron gates of the Blackwood Sanitarium into a web of brittle, silver lace, a spectacle that mocks the warmth I am trying to force into my son’s chest as I sit in the visitor’s lounge, the air thick with the scent of boiled linseed and stale fear. I am Elias Thorne, a man who once held the keys to order and discipline, and now I am reduced to a supplicant in a woolen...
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