The Wistful Campus
The air in the conservatory was thick, not with the humid sweetness of the orchids that lined the iron-framed windows, but with the heavy, metallic tang of old copper and the faint, cloying scent of lilies that seemed to rot even while blooming, a perfume so potent it felt less like fragrance and more like a physical weight pressing down on the shoulders of the twelve-year-old boy, Arthur, who...
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