The Wistful Campus
The rain had stopped. The mud on the road was slick and black, reflecting the gray sky. I looked at the man holding my hand. He was tall. He wore a leather coat. It smelled of oil and old sweat. We stood at the edge of the field. The trees were bare. There was no color left in the world. Just gray and brown and the dull red of the dirt. "Go," he said. His voice was rough. It scraped against my...
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