The Wistful Campus
Vane. The word hung in the grey light of the bedroom, sharp and cold, before Arthur even opened his eyes. It was not a question, nor a request, but a summons, as if the air itself had a voice that had been waiting for him to wake. He sat up, the sheets twisting around his waist, and the dream did not fade; it solidified. In his mind’s eye, the glass bird he had held for years, a fragile sparrow...
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