The Wistful Campus
My hand was already stiff when I reached for the baton, the leather grip slick with sweat that would not evaporate. The porcelain seal in my other pocket pressed against my hip, a cold, hard weight that had become part of my skeleton. It was the winter of 1912, and the air in the Sapporo Exchange Hall tasted of coal dust and expensive perfume, a mixture that coated the back of my throat. I am...
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