Morning.
My dorm room at Killian Hall.
Leaning against the cool frame of the window, I quietly watched as snowflakes drifted down from the cloudy sky, their slow descent almost meditative.
The academy grounds, lightly dusted with fresh white, stretched out in familiar silence.
It hadn't been that long since I left for vacation—barely a few weeks—but somehow, everything looked both unchanged and subtly different.
The grand spires of the academy still pierced the horizon, and the walkways bustled with returning students, but beneath that surface, something had shifted.
The walls had been cleaned.
Cracked stone tiles were freshly repaired.
The faint scent of wood polish and fresh plaster lingered in the air.
Small details—quiet renovations, new signposts, enhanced barriers.
It was clear the faculty had finally taken time to patch up the literal and figurative damage this place had endured from all the chaos, scandals, and near-destructions.
Made sense.
