The Wistful Campus
You wake in a bed that is not yours, the sheets stiff with the damp chill of a November morning. The room smells of old paper and lemon oil, a scent that has clung to the walls of the university library for decades, long after the professors who curated its silence have ceased to exist. You are in the study of your father, or what remains of it. The clock on the mantelpiece does not tick; it...
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