I gaze, if perhaps just glance, at the deep, red walls in amazement.

In amazement, because while the dry, worn out, ancient stones have been through so much and seen many a different thing while overviewing the garden right beneath my very feet – lovers and friends and many more of such taste – and after all this time it has lost nothing of its glow, its greatness. The white windows shine through the red like flakes of fresh snow over a desert sand, their glass, still holding strong and sound, opened to reveal a soft darkness from the empty rooms, left open by their inhabitants, the students that would – had it been a different time of the day – be chattering and walking around and enjoying the company each other provides, these very windows crowning the high walls like flowers would a wild field.

I gaze and behold the white pattern of the clay, yellowed and dulled by age, rightfully so, for they are the proof of the strength and stubbornness these walls have shown. I admire how they fade in comparison to another brightness of the windows, but my breath hitches still when my eyes fall lower.

For a sight to remember are the vines that reach up, up, circle the windows and embed themselves into every little hole, every little scratch of the bricks they can find, and climb forward, upward, perhaps reaching the two grand chimneys if given more time, and after that – who knows what their ultimate destination holds? Until then they engulf the walls, as if eating up the red and brown of this giant, the orange of the façade and those who want more, daring, even, to sometimes bite a piece of the white of the window frames.

I gaze at the ground below this enchantment, a glimpse of the world beyond our bonds.

Only the grass is green, with little to no hints of the red that may overlook the garden, the trees who's leaves tremble in the wind, as if enjoying the cool bite that arrives with every shiver, and as some fall they swirl and turn, as if dancing on the wind current that – who knows – may lead it to the place they yearn to be the most. And flowers, gentle in the bushes, strong and firm under the trees, wary of all that passed by but showing their charm nonetheless, like the queens that they are, powerful, unyielding, proud.

I gaze at the colours, full despite their age, I gaze at the shapes, the marks of time, I gaze at the petals and branches and leaves…

And I feel like I belong.

And I feel like this is me.