The Wistful Campus
The frost had finally taken the last of the maples on the ridge, stripping them back to a skeletal architecture of black branches that looked less like trees and more like the jagged cracks in a broken mirror, reflecting a sky that was the color of bruised iron. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the property line, his boots sinking into the mud that had turned to slush, watching the mist roll...
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