The Wistful Campus
The silver locket sat in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold as a river stone, its surface unmarked by the years yet vibrating with a faint, persistent hum that set his teeth on edge. He held it up to the grey light filtering through the workshop window, turning it slowly, watching the metal catch the dust motes suspended in the damp air. Outside, the village of Oakhaven lay shrouded in a mist that had...
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