The Wistful Saga
"You're holding the wrong end of the stick, David," the Dean said. He did not look up from his tablet. The glass screen reflected the gray light of the faculty lounge, a cold, sterile glare that seemed to scrub the color from the room. David stood by the window. Rain streaked the pane, blurring the view of the quad into a smear of wet slate and dying ivy. "I am correcting the record, sir,"...
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