The Wistful Campus
The house on Miller’s Lane did not look like a prison, but it had the quality of a held breath. It was a sprawling Victorian relic, all peeling paint and sagging eaves, standing isolated in a field that had long since forgotten how to be a farm. To the townsfolk of Oakhaven, who drove past with their windows up to escape the dust, it was simply the place where the old money went to die. But to...
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