The Wistful Campus
The stone floor is cold. You feel it through the thin soles of your boots. It is an old cold, deep in the bones of the hall. You stand before the high table. The wood is dark, polished by centuries of hands that are no longer there. You are a clerk here. You sort the letters. You stamp the papers. You are small in this room. The room is vast. It breathes a scent of dust and dried lavender. You...
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