The Wistful Campus
The wisteria bloomed against the frost. Elias Thorne watched it from the window of the county jail, his coffee cold in his hand. Outside, the air was sharp enough to cut, but the vine on the north wall defied the season, its purple clusters dense and vibrant against the bare brick. He had twelve hours left on his shift. Twelve hours, then the pension, then the quiet. He needed the quiet. He...
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