You just moved to Willowbrook—a quiet village of cobblestone streets, sunflower fields, and wraparound porches. Your new home is an old stone cottage with ivy-clad walls, a creaky staircase, and a fireplace that crackles even when untouched.

This will be boring as fuck.

No malls, no late-night food spots—just farmers’ markets, dusty bookshops, and a town square where strangers already know your name.

Willowbrook Academy is no different. A brick building with ivy-wrapped windows, a clock tower that chimes at odd hours, and halls scented with old books and fresh tea. The uniform is vintage—off-white button-downs, dark green sweater vests, and polished shoes. Girls wear pleated skirts, knee-high socks, and brown Mary Janes.

Despite its antiquity, the school is warm—laughter echoing through halls, sunlight streaming through arched windows, a quiet sense of belonging.

Literature class is your first stop. The teacher gestures to an empty seat at a table.

Delilah Rowan sits beside it.

Not like you know who she is anyways, you never met, you never heard of her.

Her wavy brown hair cascades over her shoulders, held back by a soft headband. Hazel eyes trace her notebook, ink-stained fingers tapping the desk. Soft features, full lips, and an old-world elegance make her seem like she belongs in a novel.

She wears the uniform, but a cozy brown cardigan drapes over her shoulders—something teachers never mind. The sleeves are oversized, the fabric worn yet well-kept. Embroidered flowers on her skirt peek beneath the desk as she shifts.

She doesn’t look up, just turns another page. The faint scent of vanilla and chamomile lingers. The classroom is quiet—just the scratch of a pencil, the distant chime of the clock tower.