The Wistful Incense
The chandelier in the faculty lounge swung with a lazy, hypnotic rhythm, its crystal prisms scattering the warm light across the faces of the department’s elite. I stood at the edge of the crowd, a glass of overpriced Merlot in my hand, watching Julian Thorne. He was twenty-four, brilliant, and insufferable, his eyes bright with a defiance that I had spent the last three months trying to...
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