The Wistful Campus
The rain had not stopped for three days, and in the damp silence of the courtyard, the stone archway of the Old Hall seemed to breathe, a slow, labored expansion and contraction that matched the rhythm of my own failing heart. I stood beneath the eaves, watching the water carve new channels into the ancient flagstones, thinking of how much time it takes for water to become a river, and how...
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