The Wistful Campus
Act I Randi Isdahl kept the wisteria alive because the dead man had planted it, and the ice was coming. The station sat on the glacier foreland, a squat stone box that smelled of wet wool and coal. It was 1944, though the calendar felt like a lie here, where the light died early and the sleet turned the path to the harbor into a trap. She was twenty-two, a widow in a world that had forgotten...
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