He retreated to the edge of the schoolyard after the bell rang, observing the humming school life with the same reverence he feels as he witnesses subtle nuances of his surroundings today: the fragile morning light, his sister’s gentle eyes when she thinks no one is watching, the tree weighed down by its own fruit, the melancholic honesty on his grandfather’s face, unveiled only in solitude, or the softening, slowly dying magnolia blossom he brought home.

The shadows have begun to inhabit his room. There, time has stopped, empty of all movement. He finds himself wandering, led by the last beams of slowly fading light. A warm presence of wind embraces his skin.

The vast sky reaches over him, busy with clouds. He notices his shadow disturbing the glistening of the grass. Like a ghost, he lingers among the trees, listening to echoes in a hall of sculptures. He rests his head on his tired knees. Branches of trees bow down to him, exposing his hurting heart.

He closes his eyes as life unfolds around him, a gentle humming rising. He finds elements in dance with one another. There seems to be an excitement to their movement, bound by an inherent order and harmony: nervous birds playing with the wind, held by the wild forest that is imbued with fleeting streams of eager water—all conspiring toward their divine appointment.
He follows the event in quiet terror as it reaches out to him gently, inviting him to dance.