The Wistful Saga
The rain in Blackwood County did not wash things clean; it merely made the dirt slicker, turning the gravel drive into a slurry that sucked at the tires of Clara Vane’s sedan as it ground to a halt before the asylum’s iron gates. It was November of 1924, and the air smelled of wet rot and coal smoke, a scent that seemed to cling to Clara’s wool coat and settle deep in her lungs. She was thirty...
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