The Wistful Campus
The letter lay on the stainless steel counter, its edges curling slightly in the dry, heated air of the prep room. It was from the Dean, printed on heavy cream stock, the ink a sharp, formal black that seemed to bite into the paper. You read it twice, your fingers tracing the cold, smooth surface of the table, feeling the faint grit of flour that no amount of wiping could fully erase. The...
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