The Wistful Letter
The dust in the basement of the Whitmore Institute did not settle; it hovered, a suspended nebula of gray particulate that caught the weak, yellowed beam of the overhead fluorescents. I adjusted my spectacles, the wire frames cold against my temples, and leaned closer to the shelf. My fingers, trembling slightly from the chill and the adrenaline of the final hour before the faculty council’s...
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