I woke up, fluttering my eyelids like the flapping of an injured bird. My throat felt sandy and dry, and my sight was extremely blurry. No matter how much I rubbed my eyes, nothing seemed to change. I could barely recognise the heavy dryness that grazed against my eyeballs. It was my eyelids. In this exhausted, half-asleep half-awake state, even my own groaning seemed far away.
Sleep, when did I fall asleep? I thought, conjuring my sanity. Through what remained of my grogginess, I ferreted around. Finding an object cold to touch. I pulled it closer — 'snatched,' some may find appropriate. It was a glass filled with water. I offered its contents to the fire that dwelled within my stomach. My throat was relieved and the fire was quenched. I was no more asleep. I gave a hearty yawn and looked around. It seemed I had fallen asleep at the pavilion right after Mr Crawford's departure.
It was dusk. I could see the sinking sun through the foliage of the nearby trees. The skies were a dusty yellow, and the gusts smelled lovely. The scent of ground — how many people can recognise it as it mixes with the wind from the east? My head was fresh, my memory clear, but I did not wish to dwell on any thought — none whatsoever. I simply held a longing towards the burning sky and the cool air.
Should I sit or should I leave?
As I was contemplating what to do, I caught glimpse of a man appearing from distance. He had a worthy belly and a funny moustache. Mr Crawford... I have an appointment, do I not? I straightened my back and rose to meet the stout man. When I caught him by the bridge in front of my supposed accommodations, I spotted the familiar duffel bag. ‘Do you carry it everywhere?’ I asked him after good evenings were said. He gave me a flippant smile but did not answer.
I explained to him my afternoon, and the good man allowed me moments to wash my face and relieve myself in my new home. It was a fine house, furnished well. It was spacious but not obnoxiously. I cleaned and relieved myself and left with the same pair of clothing. It dawned on me when I was a step outside the house, that the place was awfully clean and well-maintained. Did they clean it, knowing I will arrive today? I was grateful, and in a good mood, left alongside my stout companion.
We took the tram to the outer sector, where the motor was parked. I measured the time it took — exactly one hour, as Mr Crawford had said. We found the chauffeur cleaning the windshield when we arrived. We said our greetings and left swiftly. The skies were dark by then. And only lampposts lit the street. I saw Mr Ruth by the main gate as he was reporting for duty. I waved at him, and he waved back. As we moved further and further away from the academy, I felt anxious for no apparent reason.
Mr Crawford and the chauffeur were making idle talk, while I was gazing at the scenery outside. The night sky was beautiful as always, but from the big city, the stars seemed to have vanished. I still recall the skies of Horace, where I stayed most of my life. They had stars, constellations, and colours one could only imagine. I closed my eyes and thought of Horace. The little town was hushed most of the time, but the orphanage never seemed to be anything but lively. I had little brothers and sisters there, none of my own blood. They liked to play around, and I wished they could do so in this environment. But in that quiet village, they will at least be away from all the turmoil, I thought. Even if one day hope were to diminish from this world, I hoped that the remote village of my memories will not be affected.
I felt the motor slow down, and I felt its halt. I opened my eyes. We had arrived. Through the open window of the motor, I looked outside as the winds became gentle and eventually left my hair to fall melancholically. There was a clothing store of much prestige on a very affluent street. It was moderately big but opulent to no end.
I exited the motor and approached the store with Mr Crawford in tow. He opened the door for me, and I graciously accepted the gentlemanly gesture and entered. As the door closed behind us, I heard the bell hanging from the door ring. A well-dressed man, whom I assumed to be a clerk, greeted us with a wide, practised smile. ‘Good evening,’ he said, from across the long mahogany counter, but I was too busy glaring at the costly suits on the hangers around the room with a subtle frown to answer.
Mr Crawford was the one who took initiative. ‘A very good evening,’ he said, approaching the man in a white shirt and bow tie. They spoke for a minute, while I moved towards the two doors at the end of the room. Through one, I heard approaching footsteps, and soon a man entered the room. He had sleek grey hair, a square face, and a strong jaw. He looked at me with admiring eyes, and then he turned to Mr Crawford.
‘I have been awaiting you,’ he said to Mr Crawford. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said looking at me. ‘I am the owner of this place. They call me Joseph Hillary.’
Mr Hillary was a wealthy man. I could tell by his demeanour. He also seemed to care more than moderately about courtesies, and so did I. ‘Lile Dew,’ I said with a pleasant smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘But the pleasure is mine!’ he intoned. ‘A professor at Excellence, a mage no less. You do not have the fortune of seeing one such as you daily, Mr Dew. It is a pleasure to tailor for you.’ He gave my attire a glance, disapprovingly, I might add. ‘But this.’ He pointed vehemently. ‘This will have to go.’
I followed his gaze and agreed with a face full of shame. ‘Yes,’ I said. The man wasted no time to clothe me. He pulled me into the room he had come from. The clerk and Mr Crawford followed. There were fewer choices than in the previous room, but the quality seemed to have improved.
Now, how should I relay to him my lack of means? I was thinking so when Mr Crawford said, ‘Spare no effort, Mr Hillary.’ He fixed his gaze on the elegant man. ‘First impressions are worth in gold. This is a professor of Arcane Knowledge we speak of. We must leave a mark on students as well as the rest of the world.’ His moustache quivered with pride as he spoke. ‘We have a very hefty budget.’
‘He has a good face, Mr Crawford,’ The elegant man replied while going through the hanged shirts. ‘Nothing will look bad on him. I will put together a wardrobe that will accentuate his delicate features.’ He laid a few suits on the nearby desk. After whispering something to the clerk — who immediately climbed up the stairs to the loft — the elegant man turned back to us. ‘We will have themes, Mr Dew. I hope you are a man of taste.’
I gave him a quick nod and spoke, ‘Perhaps, you could make me look manlier?’
The man hesitated, seeing the twinkle in my eye. ‘Well, I — um — I will make you most noticeable.’ He looked at Mr Crawford pleadingly, who agreed.
‘Yes, of course,’ said the stout man. ‘You will attract fine adoration, Mr Dew.’
And then, they changed the topic of their chatter. As I was glancing around, I heard them speak of other teaching staff. Soon, the clerk arrived with three cardboard boxes in his arms. Mr Hillary checked them all. A quarter of an hour must have passed when the man called me to him.
‘Mr Dew,’ he said, ‘come, look.’ He put forward three pairs of leather shoes. One was a gentlemanly black, the other an adventurous deep green, and the last was a royal blue. I liked them all. They were so…new. They did not shine even in the bright lamps of the store. They retained their rich matt appearance.
‘The blue one, please,’ I said, like a little kid asking for his favourite candy.
‘No, no,’ said the elegant man. ‘All three are yours.’
Is he making a farce? I thought. At first, that was what I suspected, but Mr Crawford broke that notion with his approving nods. I felt joy and I felt a sense of crisis. The weight of my employment felt heavier in the face of these expenditures. I was sure more splurging was to follow, and I was right. Mr Hillary presented six pairs of formal clothing, a dress for abrupt functions, and a few pieces of casual wear. He even added light and moderately eye-catching dinner dresses.
‘This pure white poet shirt is for your dinners; you may wear this black trouser with it,’ he said, moving his hands frantically. ‘You must wear them for casual dinners, at the pavilions. Suit up for the formal ones,’ he warned and moved to another counter where the formal wear was. ‘This double-breasted blue suit and the blue tailcoat with a short tail must be worn with those blue shoes. Wear either blue trousers or black ones. On no occasion, I deliberate, must you pair blue with green. Most of these dresses will stick to your figure. It will not be uncomfortable, I assure you. So do not wear them loose. You must look smart.’ He moved to the side. ‘This Inverness cape is for rainy days; do not wear it for any other weather. Others might, but you shan't.’ The man was giving me more warnings than instructions. ‘This deep green, brocade tailcoat has a flat tail unlike the pointy one there. Wear it with black trousers; the grey one will do too.’ He went on and on. ‘Some of these are made of satin and some with silk; you must care for them appropriately.’ He talked again. ‘This snowy, white suit is a beauty. Pair it with the red cravat or the blue tie. White trousers will do it justice; you may wear black ones if the tie is of the same colour. Do not wear the lace cravat on it. I must warn you of that.’
He continued with such enthusiasm that my excitement soon seemed like a waning moon. He added tie pins of red, grey and blue crystals to the paper bags that the clerk kept filling with clothes that, I am to believe, are mine. I had never thought of ever buying so much, and I still have no clue if there truly is a need for this much splurging.
Small boxes of cufflinks and brooches were added to the pile. After a while, Mr Hillary pointed at the paper bags. ‘These are your casual wear and accessories and shoes. The rest must be fitted to your measures.’ He took a measuring tape from his trouser pocket and handed it to the clerk. He took my measures, while Mr Hillary jotted them in a diary. ‘These will be recorded and marked, Mr Dew, for when you are in need of clothing once again. We will take your measures then, of course, but they will be helpful if ever you find yourself in need of clothing and lack time to visit yourself.’
When everything was done and I had thanked Mr Hillary, as we were on our way back, the elegant man called out to Mr Crawford, standing in the doorway, ‘Send someone in two days; I will have some of them by then. That should prepare him for Orientation.’ Mr Crawford agreed, and we left.
The drive continued. I had an appointment to have my eyesight tested. To my relief, it hadn't worsened, but Mr Crawford insisted on a new pair of glasses and one more in case the other is broken or in need of repair. So, we ordered a rimless, thin, silver frame and a round, silver frame with glass of better quality. We bought some stationary before visiting the barber’s shop. It was a very high-class place, and I felt out of line, but the good men there found me to be a worthy subject of their skills. They cut my hair in layers and used clips and bands. I had only known haircutting as a profession of combs and scissors. Despite their enthusiasm, they agreed with my wishes to keep the hair long and so only shaped and styled it. They taught me how to care for it properly. We ended our farewells with my gratitude.
Lastly, we visited a blacksmith. Mr Crawford seemed particularly excited about it, and I knew why. There were very few who wouldn’t be. He took me to the best one, according to him — someone who has dealt with the sort of request I had. And after speaking with him, I could tell, he indeed had. I entrusted him with the black stone slab I had been carrying in my suitcase, and said, ‘Make as many as possible.’
He nodded with a mischievous smile. ‘You are not afraid,’ he asked. ‘That I may steal one?’ He said his name was Mark Smith. He had a moustache that was lost in his large red beard. He wore a faded apron that blacksmiths commonly did. The sleeves of his tunic were open and he had a shaved bald head. I could tell by that flaming red of his beard that he had the blood of Sailing Barbarians.
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘Even the worst of my kind wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing to the academy, Mr Smith.’
‘Try selling it,’ Mr Crawford said flippantly. ‘Your throat will be sliced by ruffians, and the stone will be taken off your corpse, I assure you.’ That was menacing, but Mr Crawford laughed fitfully like a social man of modesty would if he were a maniac in disguise. Mr Smith too guffawed. The last one, yours truly, simply looked at them with eyes of uncertainty and disbelief.
Soon, we turned our back to the blacksmith and his anvil. We had come in secrecy, and in secrecy, we left.
‘Where to next,’ the chauffeur asked. And, ‘home,’ said Mr Crawford. He was tired; so was I. We had been out for about four hours. The morning had been taxing too. It must have been worse for Mr Crawford. The man had arrangements to make even after he left me to my sweet dreams this morning. I felt a little sorry for him, but guilt, I shirked off.
I asked Mr Crawford, ‘What about dinner.’ I could hear cruel wailings from his belly, and I too needed nourishment. There was a sigh I heard, an escapee of the stout man’s ajar mouth.
‘Jerry,’ he said to the chauffeur, ‘take us to a good restaurant. We will dine before going back. No worth in letting ourselves starve for the next hour.’ That night, the three of us ate ourselves full. Rice, bread, salmon salad, and pork stew. It was a worthwhile endeavour.
The night was quiet when we came home. It was late, but Mr Crawford, despite his exhaustion, dropped me at my accommodations. We said our goodbyes, and he left with heavy feet. The canal was silent, and so were the surrounding houses. I saw only a few rooms at the end of the row lit. Rest must be asleep, I thought. There was no one around. Only the leaves rustled and crickets chirped their songs as I breathed the pleasant air.
Slowly, my mind became hazy. I rushed to my house, to my bed chamber with quick steps and locked the door. It was a warm room — a den of comfort. I could feel its invitations from metres away. As my shoulders groaned, I dropped the paper bags on the bedside table, emptied my pockets, and without changing, leapt onto the inviting bed.
As my eyes closed and ears became dull to the sound of insects, I felt myself being sucked into the comfort of my pillows. Soon, my body melted and my breathing turned rhythmic and hot. It was the first time in a long while that I found myself sleeping in a proper bed.
I woke up, fluttering my eyelids like the flapping of an injured bird. My throat felt sandy and dry, and my sight was extremely blurry. No matter how much I rubbed my eyes, nothing seemed to change. I could barely recognise the heavy dryness that grazed against my eyeballs. It was my eyelids. In this exhausted, half-asleep half-awake state, even my own groaning seemed far away.
Sleep, when did I fall asleep? I thought, conjuring my sanity. Through what remained of my grogginess, I ferreted around. Finding an object cold to touch. I pulled it closer — 'snatched,' some may find appropriate. It was a glass filled with water. I offered its contents to the fire that dwelled within my stomach. My throat was relieved and the fire was quenched. I was no more asleep. I gave a hearty yawn and looked around. It seemed I had fallen asleep at the pavilion right after Mr Crawford's departure.
It was dusk. I could see the sinking sun through the foliage of the nearby trees. The skies were a dusty yellow, and the gusts smelled lovely. The scent of ground — how many people can recognise it as it mixes with the wind from the east? My head was fresh, my memory clear, but I did not wish to dwell on any thought — none whatsoever. I simply held a longing towards the burning sky and the cool air.
Should I sit or should I leave?
As I was contemplating what to do, I caught glimpse of a man appearing from distance. He had a worthy belly and a funny moustache. Mr Crawford... I have an appointment, do I not? I straightened my back and rose to meet the stout man. When I caught him by the bridge in front of my supposed accommodations, I spotted the familiar duffel bag. ‘Do you carry it everywhere?’ I asked him after good evenings were said. He gave me a flippant smile but did not answer.
I explained to him my afternoon, and the good man allowed me moments to wash my face and relieve myself in my new home. It was a fine house, furnished well. It was spacious but not obnoxiously. I cleaned and relieved myself and left with the same pair of clothing. It dawned on me when I was a step outside the house, that the place was awfully clean and well-maintained. Did they clean it, knowing I will arrive today? I was grateful, and in a good mood, left alongside my stout companion.
We took the tram to the outer sector, where the motor was parked. I measured the time it took — exactly one hour, as Mr Crawford had said. We found the chauffeur cleaning the windshield when we arrived. We said our greetings and left swiftly. The skies were dark by then. And only lampposts lit the street. I saw Mr Ruth by the main gate as he was reporting for duty. I waved at him, and he waved back. As we moved further and further away from the academy, I felt anxious for no apparent reason.
Mr Crawford and the chauffeur were making idle talk, while I was gazing at the scenery outside. The night sky was beautiful as always, but from the big city, the stars seemed to have vanished. I still recall the skies of Horace, where I stayed most of my life. They had stars, constellations, and colours one could only imagine. I closed my eyes and thought of Horace. The little town was hushed most of the time, but the orphanage never seemed to be anything but lively. I had little brothers and sisters there, none of my own blood. They liked to play around, and I wished they could do so in this environment. But in that quiet village, they will at least be away from all the turmoil, I thought. Even if one day hope were to diminish from this world, I hoped that the remote village of my memories will not be affected.
I felt the motor slow down, and I felt its halt. I opened my eyes. We had arrived. Through the open window of the motor, I looked outside as the winds became gentle and eventually left my hair to fall melancholically. There was a clothing store of much prestige on a very affluent street. It was moderately big but opulent to no end.
I exited the motor and approached the store with Mr Crawford in tow. He opened the door for me, and I graciously accepted the gentlemanly gesture and entered. As the door closed behind us, I heard the bell hanging from the door ring. A well-dressed man, whom I assumed to be a clerk, greeted us with a wide, practised smile. ‘Good evening,’ he said, from across the long mahogany counter, but I was too busy glaring at the costly suits on the hangers around the room with a subtle frown to answer.
Mr Crawford was the one who took initiative. ‘A very good evening,’ he said, approaching the man in a white shirt and bow tie. They spoke for a minute, while I moved towards the two doors at the end of the room. Through one, I heard approaching footsteps, and soon a man entered the room. He had sleek grey hair, a square face, and a strong jaw. He looked at me with admiring eyes, and then he turned to Mr Crawford.
‘I have been awaiting you,’ he said to Mr Crawford. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said looking at me. ‘I am the owner of this place. They call me Joseph Hillary.’
Mr Hillary was a wealthy man. I could tell by his demeanour. He also seemed to care more than moderately about courtesies, and so did I. ‘Lile Dew,’ I said with a pleasant smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘But the pleasure is mine!’ he intoned. ‘A professor at Excellence, a mage no less. You do not have the fortune of seeing one such as you daily, Mr Dew. It is a pleasure to tailor for you.’ He gave my attire a glance, disapprovingly, I might add. ‘But this.’ He pointed vehemently. ‘This will have to go.’
I followed his gaze and agreed with a face full of shame. ‘Yes,’ I said. The man wasted no time to clothe me. He pulled me into the room he had come from. The clerk and Mr Crawford followed. There were fewer choices than in the previous room, but the quality seemed to have improved.
Now, how should I relay to him my lack of means? I was thinking so when Mr Crawford said, ‘Spare no effort, Mr Hillary.’ He fixed his gaze on the elegant man. ‘First impressions are worth in gold. This is a professor of Arcane Knowledge we speak of. We must leave a mark on students as well as the rest of the world.’ His moustache quivered with pride as he spoke. ‘We have a very hefty budget.’
‘He has a good face, Mr Crawford,’ The elegant man replied while going through the hanged shirts. ‘Nothing will look bad on him. I will put together a wardrobe that will accentuate his delicate features.’ He laid a few suits on the nearby desk. After whispering something to the clerk — who immediately climbed up the stairs to the loft — the elegant man turned back to us. ‘We will have themes, Mr Dew. I hope you are a man of taste.’
I gave him a quick nod and spoke, ‘Perhaps, you could make me look manlier?’
The man hesitated, seeing the twinkle in my eye. ‘Well, I — um — I will make you most noticeable.’ He looked at Mr Crawford pleadingly, who agreed.
‘Yes, of course,’ said the stout man. ‘You will attract fine adoration, Mr Dew.’
And then, they changed the topic of their chatter. As I was glancing around, I heard them speak of other teaching staff. Soon, the clerk arrived with three cardboard boxes in his arms. Mr Hillary checked them all. A quarter of an hour must have passed when the man called me to him.
‘Mr Dew,’ he said, ‘come, look.’ He put forward three pairs of leather shoes. One was a gentlemanly black, the other an adventurous deep green, and the last was a royal blue. I liked them all. They were so…new. They did not shine even in the bright lamps of the store. They retained their rich matt appearance.
‘The blue one, please,’ I said, like a little kid asking for his favourite candy.
‘No, no,’ said the elegant man. ‘All three are yours.’
Is he making a farce? I thought. At first, that was what I suspected, but Mr Crawford broke that notion with his approving nods. I felt joy and I felt a sense of crisis. The weight of my employment felt heavier in the face of these expenditures. I was sure more splurging was to follow, and I was right. Mr Hillary presented six pairs of formal clothing, a dress for abrupt functions, and a few pieces of casual wear. He even added light and moderately eye-catching dinner dresses.
‘This pure white poet shirt is for your dinners; you may wear this black trouser with it,’ he said, moving his hands frantically. ‘You must wear them for casual dinners, at the pavilions. Suit up for the formal ones,’ he warned and moved to another counter where the formal wear was. ‘This double-breasted blue suit and the blue tailcoat with a short tail must be worn with those blue shoes. Wear either blue trousers or black ones. On no occasion, I deliberate, must you pair blue with green. Most of these dresses will stick to your figure. It will not be uncomfortable, I assure you. So do not wear them loose. You must look smart.’ He moved to the side. ‘This Inverness cape is for rainy days; do not wear it for any other weather. Others might, but you shan't.’ The man was giving me more warnings than instructions. ‘This deep green, brocade tailcoat has a flat tail unlike the pointy one there. Wear it with black trousers; the grey one will do too.’ He went on and on. ‘Some of these are made of satin and some with silk; you must care for them appropriately.’ He talked again. ‘This snowy, white suit is a beauty. Pair it with the red cravat or the blue tie. White trousers will do it justice; you may wear black ones if the tie is of the same colour. Do not wear the lace cravat on it. I must warn you of that.’
He continued with such enthusiasm that my excitement soon seemed like a waning moon. He added tie pins of red, grey and blue crystals to the paper bags that the clerk kept filling with clothes that, I am to believe, are mine. I had never thought of ever buying so much, and I still have no clue if there truly is a need for this much splurging.
Small boxes of cufflinks and brooches were added to the pile. After a while, Mr Hillary pointed at the paper bags. ‘These are your casual wear and accessories and shoes. The rest must be fitted to your measures.’ He took a measuring tape from his trouser pocket and handed it to the clerk. He took my measures, while Mr Hillary jotted them in a diary. ‘These will be recorded and marked, Mr Dew, for when you are in need of clothing once again. We will take your measures then, of course, but they will be helpful if ever you find yourself in need of clothing and lack time to visit yourself.’
When everything was done and I had thanked Mr Hillary, as we were on our way back, the elegant man called out to Mr Crawford, standing in the doorway, ‘Send someone in two days; I will have some of them by then. That should prepare him for Orientation.’ Mr Crawford agreed, and we left.
The drive continued. I had an appointment to have my eyesight tested. To my relief, it hadn't worsened, but Mr Crawford insisted on a new pair of glasses and one more in case the other is broken or in need of repair. So, we ordered a rimless, thin, silver frame and a round, silver frame with glass of better quality. We bought some stationary before visiting the barber’s shop. It was a very high-class place, and I felt out of line, but the good men there found me to be a worthy subject of their skills. They cut my hair in layers and used clips and bands. I had only known haircutting as a profession of combs and scissors. Despite their enthusiasm, they agreed with my wishes to keep the hair long and so only shaped and styled it. They taught me how to care for it properly. We ended our farewells with my gratitude.
Lastly, we visited a blacksmith. Mr Crawford seemed particularly excited about it, and I knew why. There were very few who wouldn’t be. He took me to the best one, according to him — someone who has dealt with the sort of request I had. And after speaking with him, I could tell, he indeed had. I entrusted him with the black stone slab I had been carrying in my suitcase, and said, ‘Make as many as possible.’
He nodded with a mischievous smile. ‘You are not afraid,’ he asked. ‘That I may steal one?’ He said his name was Mark Smith. He had a moustache that was lost in his large red beard. He wore a faded apron that blacksmiths commonly did. The sleeves of his tunic were open and he had a shaved bald head. I could tell by that flaming red of his beard that he had the blood of Sailing Barbarians.
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘Even the worst of my kind wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing to the academy, Mr Smith.’
‘Try selling it,’ Mr Crawford said flippantly. ‘Your throat will be sliced by ruffians, and the stone will be taken off your corpse, I assure you.’ That was menacing, but Mr Crawford laughed fitfully like a social man of modesty would if he were a maniac in disguise. Mr Smith too guffawed. The last one, yours truly, simply looked at them with eyes of uncertainty and disbelief.
Soon, we turned our back to the blacksmith and his anvil. We had come in secrecy, and in secrecy, we left.
‘Where to next,’ the chauffeur asked. And, ‘home,’ said Mr Crawford. He was tired; so was I. We had been out for about four hours. The morning had been taxing too. It must have been worse for Mr Crawford. The man had arrangements to make even after he left me to my sweet dreams this morning. I felt a little sorry for him, but guilt, I shirked off.
I asked Mr Crawford, ‘What about dinner.’ I could hear cruel wailings from his belly, and I too needed nourishment. There was a sigh I heard, an escapee of the stout man’s ajar mouth.
‘Jerry,’ he said to the chauffeur, ‘take us to a good restaurant. We will dine before going back. No worth in letting ourselves starve for the next hour.’ That night, the three of us ate ourselves full. Rice, bread, salmon salad, and pork stew. It was a worthwhile endeavour.
The night was quiet when we came home. It was late, but Mr Crawford, despite his exhaustion, dropped me at my accommodations. We said our goodbyes, and he left with heavy feet. The canal was silent, and so were the surrounding houses. I saw only a few rooms at the end of the row lit. Rest must be asleep, I thought. There was no one around. Only the leaves rustled and crickets chirped their songs as I breathed the pleasant air.
Slowly, my mind became hazy. I rushed to my house, to my bed chamber with quick steps and locked the door. It was a warm room — a den of comfort. I could feel its invitations from metres away. As my shoulders groaned, I dropped the paper bags on the bedside table, emptied my pockets, and without changing, leapt onto the inviting bed.
As my eyes closed and ears became dull to the sound of insects, I felt myself being sucked into the comfort of my pillows. Soon, my body melted and my breathing turned rhythmic and hot. It was the first time in a long while that I found myself sleeping in a proper bed.
