The Wistful Campus
The needle slipped through the wool for the four hundred and twelfth time, pulling the thread taut against the bone of Clara’s finger. She counted the stitches as a man counts coins in a ledger, each one a small, heavy debt paid to the silence of the room. The clock on the mantel ticked with the mechanical indifference of a factory gear, marking the seconds that separated her present self from...
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