The Wistful Campus
The bell in the clock tower did not ring; it screamed, a jagged tear in the fabric of the morning that silenced the entire university. I was twelve years old, standing in the shadow of the oak trees that lined the Quad, my knuckles white as I gripped the handle of my satchel. The air tasted of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to clear. Around...
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