The Wistful Campus
The iron gates do not rust. They do not bend under the weight of the night, nor do they shudder when the wind howls from the moors beyond the glass walls. They stand as they have stood for a century, immutable, cold, and absolute. You are inside them now. You are part of the architecture. You wake in the library, not in a bed, but on the floor between the shelves. The air smells of dust and...
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