The Wistful Campus
The memo from Mr. Thorne lay on the desk, its corner curling slightly as the radiator ticked in the corner of the archive room, a dry, metallic sound that seemed to punctuate the silence of the afternoon. It was a short note, typed on the university’s standard letterhead, and it stated with a bureaucratic finality that the 1920s botanical index, which I had spent the last four years restoring...
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