The Wistful Campus
The dream is always the same, a corridor of peeling yellow wallpaper where the floorboards groan under a weight that isn't mine, and when I wake in my narrow bed in the staff quarters, the smell of wet earth and copper is still clinging to my skin, a scent that no amount of scrubbing with industrial soap can fully erase. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and I have spent the last four...
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