The Wistful Campus

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2026-08-19 12:08:25 -

The road to the Abbey was a wound in the green flesh of the hill. I walked it with my hands bound by my own grief. I was a maker of glass. My craft was breath and flame. I shaped light into vessels. I did this for the monks. I did this for the dead. My hands were cracked. The skin pealed like bark in winter. I held a shard in my left palm. It was cold. It was sharp. It was the only thing I had...

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