The Wistful Campus
The bell tower did not ring. It hung there, a heavy, bronze lung in the grey sky, silent as a held breath. Below it, on the cobblestones of the square, the town had gathered. They stood in the rain, huddled under cloaks of mud-brown wool, their faces turned up toward the belfry with an expression that was not quite fear, nor quite curiosity, but a kind of hungry, collective shudder. They were...
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