The towering iron-wrought gates of Lonethorn University stood imposing before me. As I stood there, I am oft reminded of such similar days in my life. One I have referred to as days of change. We all have experience it at one point or another. On such occasions, as I have observed over the years, people have a sudden influx of emotion in these moments of great change and uncertainty. It is an inclination in the human spirit that enables us to persevere into the unknown with our chests held high and hopes aflutter. A way of thinking that borders on the fine line opposite of delusional.

Optimism. It borders dangerously on wishful thinking and delusions of grandeur, to throw caution to the wind and step into the unknown despite the odds stacked against one's favor, leading eventually to a realm of boundless disappointments and misery. That is the crux of Optimism. As my uncle had once told me: Smother it. Smother that feeling deep and down your gut boy. And be on the look out for the punch that you don't see coming, for those are the ones that would knock you flat on your arse. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Days of great change come far and few in between for well-adjusted average individuals. Not to me, for as early as childhood it is one change after the next and am more than just adept to quell down that feeling of optimism deep within my chest.

Lonethorn's main gates were a reflection of the school's prestige. Fifteen meters of dark iron, embroidered with masterfully crafted ferric vines and replete with sharp thorns in the thousands. An aesthetic choice, I think, with a sense of functionality to deter intruders. The vines wrapped themselves majestically against the vertical rods of iron that formed the barring locus of the gates, akin to their living counterparts and finally coiling atop the upper frames.

A faint mist creeped around the property, oozing its way and clinging close to the ground as the day was well on its way. The sun appeared on the horizon, and with it a great mantle of piercing blue horizon. But something has taken hold of the mist within Lonethorn, for the stubborn brume clung in places like a barnacle on a ship's hull. I ran my hand against the weathered iron, I get the sense this path is used for only official or ceremonial capacity. No guard was visible. There was no way I was going through there. Saville's instruction were vague at best and so I have to trust my gut. After a moment of craning my neck from left and right, my eyes spotted an adjacent building lay beside the gargantuan gates. An old single story brickwork structure, dwarfed by the gates but was no less imposing.

My steps were heavy and boisterous to my ears, as if (and very might well be) I was the only living soul for leagues on out. The city can be seen from where I stood for the peak was cresting over the elevation and provided a superb view of the bustling metropolis below. And it was so quiet here I stood that I could still hear the thrumming of the city. As I've made my way inside, my initial assessment was proven wrong.

A clerk sat behind a rich and dark wooden counter within, along with a quadruple set of stern-faced guards at the far end of the hall that led to the campus proper. All four guards made no mention of my entry but their eyes trailed on me with each step. Their clothing was in apathetic dark blue, made in style with that of chauffeurs, long sleeved and high collared. The only tell of their office was the black truncheon and whistle hanging on their belts. And there was more. I felt more than just simple mortal eyes cast upon me. On one section of the red brick walls were several portraiture of austere ladies and gentlemen lined up, a cursory glance awarded me a brief insight of deans and various famous alumni. None were smiling. Their eyes trailed on me as I walked.

I seldom feel self-conscious. I learned to walk with pride early on, watching my Uncle Arnao. Pride was all he had growing up in the barren hinterlands of Sorez's mountains. Despite the impoverished beginnings of my forbearers, he persevered. Pride was all he had in his heart, even when his stomach had nothing. He nurtured and cared for his many siblings and took up a law degree in that time as well. Pride is all I had and all my mother and uncle had growing up while clawing a living in the harsh boonies. And yet as I took those first dozen steps I could feel their painted gaze, measuring me, founding me wanting. My heart found itself doubling in its pace because of those thoughts. It was an irrational fear. It was merely a trick of the painter's brush and lighting, fueled by my own voices in my head. I try not to let the doubt show on my face as I approached the front desk.

"Yes?" asked the clerk in a rich tone, not looking up from his work. I pulled out my sealed letter and put it atop the counter.

"I am here for admission." I slid the letter across.

The clerk's eyes narrowed, "The university is still in the midst of drawing up and sending letters. We haven't so much as posted the list of Admitees yet."

"I'm not precisely an admitee. It's all laid out, as I'm instructed, within the letter." I tapped with a finger on the embossed envelope with the University's waxed seal.

"How peculiar," the clerk muttered but nonetheless took the envelope. He produced an ornate silver letter-opener, a flick of the wrist, and opened the envelope. His eyes danced from one side to the other like a rubber ball between two players. Then his brows shot up, eyes wide. He cast me a wide-eyed glance. A myriad of gestures happened in between as suddenly the office behind the desk burst into motion. He stood and went behind a door to an office I could not see, but clearly more people lay within. I did not see but heard books opened, drawers pulled open and a minor commotion erupting within. Muffled voices trailed outside.

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"An indorsement from those two coots? Saville and Spencer?" said one voice, a midge louder than the rest, with a hint of authority to it.

"Really?" piped another, a woman's. "How peculiar."

"That's what I've said as well," came the clerk's voice within.

In the interceding time in-between as the gears of Lonethorn's bureaucratic machine sorted whatever it is that needed sorting, I regained most of my old poise, dispelling the whispering doubts brought upon by the line of painted men and women looking down on whoever happened to be walking beneath those doors. As I listened further for the muffled discussion between rank-and-file employees, I couldn't help but feel a twinge on the back of my elbow. A sign of something going wrong. It wasn't the Old Call but merely an estimate based on the limited observations I made.

The clerk's remarks: ".....We haven't so much as posted the list of Admitees yet." "How peculiar."

Then I thought back on the two scholars: wily Saville and gruff old Spencer. I thought back on our times more than a year ago now and winced. Their little morning habits and routines, the state of their quarters and the myriad of academic paraphernalia scattered on their tables or any flat surfaces that found the miserable luck of being burdened of several stones worth of scribbled papers and books.

Damn those two old coots! If I came all this way only for them to botch the admission process.....

I seethed inwardly. That likely scenario was more than likely.

When the door to the hidden office opened once more, the clerk was not alone. With him were two more people. An older gentleman who carried himself with authority and a young-ish auburn haired woman with glasses. The older man stepped forth, "Young man," he said. "Do you have with you the Certificate of Qualified Intelligence? Did you undertook the qualifying exam conducted on any of our satellite facilities? Received, through postage, an advance Letter of Acceptance? For only the Letter of Esteemed Indorsement, though highly regarded, is contained within the sealed envelope."

I straightened my back a bit and answered in a steady and concise manner, making eye contact, "Professor Saville assured me he received my Certificate of Qualified Intelligence. And no, I did not undertake the qualifying exam on any satellite facility but was instead proctored under Professor Spencer's discretion. The Letter of Acceptance I have no idea but have several correspondences that both Professors Saville and Spencer have confirmed my admittance to the Dean of Studies and apt authorities of the University. I have the correspondences on my possession should you wish to affirm it."

The man merely nodded. "I have confirmed that this letter is indeed legitimate. But..."

There's always a but.

".....the aforementioned additional documents are nowhere to be found. As well as our ledgers and memorandums contain no mention of your imminent admittance, Mr. Serrano." Then, with genuine contrition, the man dipped his head a few degrees lower. It wasn't a full bow, the gesture was stiff but I muse it was the stiffness of his joints rather character that made it so. "On behalf of Lonethorn's Administrative staff I apologize."

"Ah." I simply said. I was not surprised. If I had been optimistic with a spring on my step, the blow of this bureaucratic mishap (I blame those two fogies, Saville and Spencer) would have laid me low. But I was not. I was of clear mind and humors. My only consolation was that young (crazy) Miss Electa Covington was not here to witness it, while my topmost grief is the considerable sum I spent on train tickets and transportation.

"It is what it is." I eventually said. It had only been a few seconds since the news but I am ready to move on. My uncle's words echoed on my mind. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I expected the unseen blow and here it was. Did it hurt? mayhaps a little, but it did not knock me flat on my arse.

"Well then, I apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your assistance. Good day" I re-hoisted my sailor's bag over my shoulder, it would be a long journey back to Sorez. It would sting a little but Arnao Serrano taught me to look a problem face on, regardless of any inner weakness. I would look my uncle straight in the eye and tell him things did not pan out. Such was life.

I almost made a full hundred-and-eighty degree turn before all three burst forward, surprised and alarmed.

"Mister Serrano, wait!" They all said in unison. "W-where are you going?" piped the young-ish woman.

"Well, back home of course." I replied as if that wasn't clear.

"No, no, no! You are still eligible for admittance into the school. It's just that..." The woman gestured blindly with her hands, looking for the best to lay the words gently. Her eyes was directed blankly towards the ceiling as if a dictionary was there, ".....we'll have to search for those mentioned documents and would most likely take up....'considerable' time on our part."

"The problem lies in the interim of that period. Because of the shoddy paperwork, we could not accommodate you on the dormitories as of yet, as all of the rooms are already spoken for and any alteration would result in further complications," plied the clerk.

"I'm afraid we would have to temporarily house you in some....irregular accommodations for the time being," added the older gentleman.

I mused on what they said. Now this clearly put me on my proverbial and metaphorical arse. I was prepared for disappointment, steeled myself for it. Only to be legitimately flummoxed by the turn of events (and shoddy paperwork of Saville and Spencer, both left unsaid by the staff but I know they blame the two dodos for this mishap.)

The silence stretched on as I try to gather my thoughts, it stretched to the point it bordered on awkwardness. The clerk began to check his well polished shoes. The young-ish woman began wringing her fingers and the old gentleman seemed to be puffing his chest ever higher just to ward off the silence. It was the young-ish woman who broke the silence finally.

"So without further ado and apologies aplenty, Welcome Mister Serrano, to Lonethorn University," she said with a sheepish smile.