The Wistful Campus
The oak tree stood in the center of the yard, its branches heavy with the weight of a season that had long since passed. It was an ancient thing, gnarled and stubborn, its bark the color of dried blood under the pale autumn light. Elias Vance stood before it, his hand resting on the rough trunk, feeling the cold seep through the leather of his glove. He was a man who had spent forty years in...
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