The sunlight filters onto the smooth, tanned skin of an outstretched leg and calloused palms face the sky, soaking it all in. Stumpy toes wriggle under the rays of warmth and are occasionally jerked backwards as a tuft of grass tickles them. The scent of pollen wafts through the air, partially combined with the rank stench of manure and wet dog.

Jongin yawns and extends both of his arms above his head, groaning inwardly as he hears joints crack and tilting both ways to soothe the ache in his lower back. Then, his head falls backwards and hits the crumbly earth with a muffled thud and his arms topple lifelessly to his sides, the sunlight kissing his skin once more.

His eyes pop open as barking erupts from Winston the Maremma, who is supposed to be guarding the livestock but has ventured away from his duties to linger around his favourite human. He sits up and his eyes follow the direction of the sounds, until his gaze falls upon the motorcycle grumbling up the dirt road. It comes to a sudden halt and the rider leans over to dump a clump of mail into the lopsided metal mailbox, before driving off into the distance, clouds of dirt flicking up behind it. Winston rises on his hind legs to snatch the mail up in his mouth and waddles over to Jongin, who is now seated and holding out his hand in anticipation.

His heart is beating so rapidly that it almost hurts as he locates the letter addressed to him and his fingers tremble violently as he tears it open. With an audible gulp, he unfolds the piece of paper, eyes immediately scanning the countless typed lines. He does not read it all, because he has already seen what he had been secretly hoping for.

Winston darts inside behind Jongin, who skids along the sweltering floorboards and stumbles into the kitchen. His father, a scholarly man with a combed part and huge googly glasses, lifts his head. There is an ancient typewriter in front of him and his fingers remain suspended in the air just above it as he stares at his son.

‘I got in!’ Jongin bellows suddenly, waving the letter around madly as he races around the room.

‘Got in to what?’

‘The university,’ Jongin responds chirpily, twirling on pointed toes, ‘I’m headed to the big city, dad!’

Jongin dashes upstairs and shoves the door to his parents’ room open, prancing in to inform his mother. He is grinning joyously and his eyes are filled to the brim with excited tears, which quickly transform into trickles of emotions down his cheeks once he spots the woman on the floor. Her hair, greying speedily and curling from the humidity, is manically jutting out in all directions, and blood spills from a jagged wound on her thigh. There is a cracked bottle of vodka on its side next to her, the liquid spilling out to mix with the oozing red and dampening her white nightdress so that it seems transparent.

Jongin yanks the sheets off her bed and drops to his knees to wrap them tightly around the gash, screaming all the while. ‘You can’t keep doing this mum!’

‘He’s going to get me. He’s coming. He’s going to get me. He’s coming,’ she mumbles over and over.

His father enters the room and she starts screeching like an animal, stretched so widely that wrinkles are forced into odd places over her mascara stained face. He shoos Jongin and tries to control her, but she thrashes and kicks at him, not recognising the features of the man she once loved. Jongin is planted in the doorway, sobbing silently.

A couple of years ago they had been a picture perfect family, focussed on togetherness and teamwork. His mother was, like his father, a poet. She wrote beautiful pieces, ranging from extensive narratives following myths and heroes to short rhyming clauses full of intimate imagery. However, her works had never been recognised as his father’s had been, and as time had passed her lack of confidence influenced a decrease in her mentality. The moment she picked up the bottle, the day she decided just one sip would assist her in writing the greatest poem of the century, she did not stop. And now, she hardly knew where she was and could not make sense of the man pinning her down.

Jongin sniffles and takes a step back. This was supposed to be a good day.

The building is gigantic and regal, with intricate antique designs and numerous curved windows with gilded edges. It shoots up into the sky, so wide and so tall that the clouds obscure the view of its pointed tip, the highest spot located directly in the centre. Clusters of impeccably dressed individuals pace in and out, walking hastily through the magnificent arched entrance, whilst Jongin adjusts the strap of his bag and loops his fingers under it, simply because he is nervous and needs something to cling to.

He gestures the sign of the cross over his chest, despite not being religious, and forces his legs to move. His body feels light and numb, but his feet continue to drag him along, freshly polished boots scuffing against the pavement. The fingers wedged under his leather strap start to turn red and then eventually blue, but he is so overwhelmed by the sight looming ahead of him that he floats closer, his mouth agape and his eyes widened. He is so distracted that he collides with something solid and crumbles to the ground, tattered novels and loose sheets of paper sliding out of his bag.

A slender young woman kneels down beside him and scoops the contents up neatly, sorting everything into proper piles. She has a kind face, with pink plump lips and rounded eyes that are sweetly accentuated by the thickness of her eyelashes. A smile tugs at her lips and she directs it at Jongin, who is muttering apologies.

When he peers up to see her staring at him pleasantly, he takes the papers from her hands and shoves them back into his bag, before bowing politely and continuing the unnerving journey towards the entrance. She looks after him as he gets further away, an expression of shock etched into her features. No one has ever been so oblivious to her stunning appearance and though she never runs into Jongin again, the incident serves somewhat as an awakening for her. She shakes her head and saunters off in the opposite direction.

Jongin’s first day simply consists of a tour around the extensive canvas. The man that leads the group of freshmen around is chubby cheeked and jolly, his eyes always crinkling in the corners. He gesticulates frequently, no word left without a gesture to emphasise its hidden meaning, and he stops in his tracks to admire classrooms, particular students and sometimes even aged, torn posters pinned loosely to the hallway walls. He tends to stray away from females strolling on by as though he is outwardly shy, yet has no issue