The morning sunlight filtered through the tall, dust-speckled windows of the old library, casting long beams of gold across rows of worn wooden desks and ink-stained notebooks. The room smelled faintly of dust, old books, and the polished brass of the radiator that coughed occasionally in protest. Among the students seated with varying degrees of attention, there was one figure who seemed entirely immune to the solemnity of the setting.

Bunny, himself — had never quite mastered the art of subtlety while sitting in the library, almost laughing too loudly as he stared into an old funny book he found in the corner of those dusty, crabby shelves to entertain himself, distracting from the boredom of Greeks, Latins stuffs he studied.

His presence filled the space even before his voice did, bright and unruly as his hair, and impossible to ignore. The library was his theatre, and he played with practiced ease, laughing too loud, speaking too fast, and tossing Greek names into the air as if he were haggling in a marketplace rather than doing the class work.