The Wistful Campus
The letter was folded into a square no larger than a playing card, the paper yellowed and brittle with the dampness of the cellar where it had been hidden for three months. You held it in your left hand, the knuckles white, while your right hand brushed the lint from the collar of your tunic, a gesture of habitual cleanliness that felt obscene in the stale air of the dormitory. The ink was...
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