The Wistful Campus
The carriage wheels clatter over the cobblestones, a rhythmic, dry pounding that seems to shake the bones of the old city into submission. You sit in the back, your hands resting on your knees, knuckles white from the cold or perhaps from the sheer effort of holding your breath. The air outside is thin and sharp, carrying the scent of damp stone and woodsmoke, but inside the carriage, the...
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