The Wistful Campus
The stone was cold, a slab of grey granite that seemed to remember the weight of centuries. I held it in my hands, feeling its rough texture against my palms, a tactile map of the past. It was the cornerstone of the library, the old one, the one that had stood in the center of our small, mist-shrouded town before the fire took it. Or so we were told. I am a scholar of architecture, a man who...
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