The Wistful Campus
The fog does not roll in; it constructs itself, brick by gray brick, until the university quadrangle is no longer a place of learning but a suspended engine of mist and memory. You stand at the center of the Mall, your hands trembling not from the damp cold that seeps into the wool of your coat but from the sheer, crushing weight of the air, which feels less like atmosphere and more like a...
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