The Wistful Campus
The air in the subterranean archives of the university library smelled of wet wool, decaying paper, and the metallic tang of old dust, a scent that seemed to cling to the back of my throat like a persistent, bitter aftertaste. I sat at the long oak table, the surface scarred by centuries of nibbed pens and spilled ink, my fingers numb from the cold that seeped up through the floorboards despite...
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