The Wistful Campus
The ink bled into the parchment not like a liquid, but like a wound, spreading in jagged, arterial veins that pulsed against the grain of the paper. I watched the blackness devour the white space, a silent consumption that felt less like writing and more like bleeding out. My hand trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the stone walls of the library, but from the sheer, terrifying...
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