The Wistful Throne
The fog had not lifted off the river since Tuesday, a thick, grey wool that smelled of coal smoke and wet dog, clinging to the limestone walls of the university like a shroud that refused to be pulled away. You stood at the window of your office, a room that had once felt like a sanctuary of thought but now felt like a cell in a prison for the incurably curious, watching the water churn in a...
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