The Wistful Petal
The rain does not fall so much as it is exhaled by the grey, swollen belly of the sky, a persistent, wet sigh that soaks into the bones of the university and settles in the joints of the old oak desks in the faculty office, where you sit with your left hand resting heavily on the spine of a leather-bound volume, the skin there pale and thin as parchment, the veins beneath it tracing the...
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