The Wistful Campus
The iron gates of St. Jude’s Academy for Girls creak open in the morning fog, a sound like a bone grinding against another, and you walk through them with your mother’s hand locked tight in yours, her knuckles white, her grip a vice that has held you since you were small enough to fit in the crook of her arm. The air smells of wet slate and old paper, a scent that has soaked into the bricks of...
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