The Wistful Campus
The mist in the Blackwood Conservatory did not behave like ordinary fog, for it possessed a viscosity that seemed to adhere to the skin, a damp, cold film that tasted of iron and old rot. It was a place where the air itself felt heavy with the unspoken, a thick, suffocating weight that pressed against the eardrums and the mind alike. In this enclosed world of glass and iron, beneath the...
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