The Wistful Saga
The key is in your pocket, and it is singing. You have held it for three days now, ever since the janitor found it tucked behind the radiator in the administrative wing, a small, iron thing worn smooth by decades of hands that are no longer alive. It hums against your thigh, a low, resonant frequency that vibrates in your teeth, a sound that is not quite sound but a pressure in the air, a ghost...
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