It was a pastel yellow, round and cartoonish, casting a mellow warmth that dried the morning dew and gently awoke the chirping insects from their slumber. Rays of white, hazy light streamed through the Spanish moss flowing from the ancient oaks lining both sides of Sugar Hill’s winding entrance road. The smell of honeysuckle perfumed the air, accented by a richer scent of wet clay. Normally, these were the days that convinced Eli that all was right with the world. It was nature’s way of telling us to take it easy. To chill. To cast aside our petty problems and understand that everything was going to be okay. But, today, it felt like a facade, a trap. A siren song luring him towards a place of danger, inviting him to let down his guard when he needed to be fully alert. Projections, Eli, he thought wearily. You’re just projecting again. But as he crested the hill and saw the great spire of the main building thrusting skyward, it failed to instill in him the usual sense of profound purpose.
