The Amber House, Main Hall, 1920s

The classroom door slams open with the rough tumble of edge only brought upon by teenage girls. It lets in a drafty winter breeze, which the other students grumble at before quickly quieting down when they realize who’s arrived. You look up from your hidden corner by the window, undisturbed by the presence of these forces of nature. Bryce blazes in, the other girls quick to follow at her heels. Always hauntingly picture-perfect, as if they had stepped straight out of a collection of vintage...

The 4 a.m. train rattles your windowsill and sends the little ceramic flower pot crashing to the floor. It’s alright, it was precariously balanced, and ugly, and nothing ever grew in it, not that you were growing anything in the first place.