The Wistful Campus
The smell of wet earth and rotting wood hung in the air, thick enough to taste, a metallic tang that coated Elara Vance’s tongue as she wiped the condensation from the glass panes of the greenhouse. "You must stop," Thomas Bradshaw said, his voice trembling with a fear that seemed out of place in the humid gloom. "The village elders speak of the cereus as a curse. They say it eats the mind."...
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