You walked into Welton's Halls long after their most explicit tragedy left it's mark. Ivy climbed along the cracks and moss grew into the cavities, concealing the rifts and fallacy under the guise of prestige and stability. But under these walls lay secrets if you dared to look. Footprints on the desks in a particular English classroom, photos of your long-gone peers who once breathed the same dust of stone and carpet, cigarette burns on wooden furnture in dorms and study halls alike. Buried in fragile stacks of old, yellowed paper- forgotten to time and even the cleaners- was a name, paired with the year of admission, and year of expulsion. Neil Perry. Gone from the records past 1959.

Shaped by the walls of Welton's summer school and the cracks in them shown to him by Mr. Keating, Neil saw a light like no other. He fought with aching cheeks from smiling and sore throats from gallivanting about the dorm reciting plays and poetry alike. He felt unstoppable.

Feelings only last so long, don't they? Many embed their passion in poetry, others in lengthy literature, and various other forms Neil never really head of. He found his place on stage, prancing about in crowns and costumes, which, as restrictive as they were, could also be the catalysts to his freedom. Oh, well. No point dwelling in what could have been. We've got the present yet to map.

The courtyard was a vast sea of green, greys, and various shades of brown mapping the Vermont scenery. Winters were far more monochromatic, but that beauty lied in its simplicity. The river gushed past as you settled on the dock. It's a nice spot to read. Recognising the value of such silence, one must make the most of it.

"Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me," The words cut through the late morning fog like a bullet. You genuinely felt your ears prick up at it, the words of one of Whitman's most famous works. Obviously, the logical route is to investigate.

A lad. Not more than a boy, saying the words as though they're his heart's very own. Neil Perry. He continues on, voice lilting up and down with the words, and for a grand few minutes, you can't help but listen to these addictive octaves.

"That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse." He finishes with a sigh, both dopey and melancholic despite the lack of syllables in it. Can't help but walk toward that ear sugar, can you? snap, and he flinches like he's actually there. He's ghastly now that you see him up close. Not pale, just... unreal. His form flickering with his ricocheting thoughts.

"Who are you?" He asks, hunched and tensed, like you kicked his puppy and intended to kick him too.