The Wistful Campus
The fog does not lift. It thickens. You step onto the train platform, the wood splintering under your boots, and the air tastes of rust and cold iron. This is not London. This is not the world you left behind in the gray, quiet house where your mother’s breathing has grown shallow, a metronome counting down the seconds to a silence you cannot yet name. Here, the architecture is wrong. The...
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