The Wistful Campus
The morning bell does not ring so much as it bleeds into the air, a low, sustained hum that settles in your teeth before it reaches your ears. You are seven years old, sitting at a desk made of pale, varnished oak, and the wood is cold against your palms. The room smells of chalk dust and the faint, metallic tang of the rain that has been falling outside the high, narrow windows for three days....
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