The Wistful Campus
The letter from the Dean was thin, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the lavender water used to preserve the vellum. It lay on my desk, pinned beneath a glass paperweight, its edges already curling from the dampness of the October air. I read it twice, then a third time, before I looked up at the window where the fog had begun to press against the glass. The message was simple: complete the...
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