The Wistful Asylum
"You’re not supposed to have the key, Bertha." Halloway stood in the doorway of the interview room, his face a mask of bureaucratic surprise, though his eyes were flat and hard. The air in the room smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of the one-way glass, a scent that clung to the back of Bertha’s throat. She sat on the plastic chair, her hands resting on the small, rusted cage in her...
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