The Wistful Campus
The hall of the Ashworth estate was not merely decorated; it was besieged by the weight of its own history. The air hung thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a preservation of time that felt less like memory and more like a taxidermied beast, pinned beneath glass to ensure it would never breathe, never change, never die. Margaret Holloway stood at the edge of the grand staircase, her...
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