The midday sun, glowing through the arches of the hallway, cast crisscrossing patterns of light and dark down the passageway; motes of dust danced Brownian ballets in the shafts of afternoon sun. The soft, bright light illuminated only the center of the passage, revealing the worn floor of rich, old wood panels, yet leaving the walls and crevices of the gothic arches in shadows.
                    From below the hallway, sounds could be heard, mostly a muffled blur of voices, though a impression of Latin or French, multiplication tables, singing, or a name from the historical past might come into focus then fade back into the haze.
                    At the far end of the hall, a stained glass window glowed with midday radiance; its colors faded through age, pale light painting the surrounding floor in gentle pink, ochre and cerulean blue. The image within the window, delineated in a faux medieval style, was of two young women, one in white, the other red. In the foreground of the picture was an opened book, but the text, if there had ever been any, was blurred, most likely faded with time.
                    Helen stood before the stained window, staring through it. She wasn't in the hallway but in Mrs. Warter's office, among perfectly arranged rows of book, the plaster busts, the reproductions of the great masters and the photographs of illustrious ruins. Helen saw herself before the imposing Sheraton desk, as she had been minutes before, but now reframing her words, her manner, her voice. In her mind, she could fearlessly face the dour visage of Mrs. Warter and tell the older woman that she, Helen, was leaving her position as a teacher at the Mountcliffe Academy for Girls. She would be able to look into the steel eyes beneath the steel hair, and say these without trepidation, without guilt, without tearing up, as she had moments before. She saw herself and the headmistress as characters on a stage, and she could rewrite the lines of the scene and eradicate her stumbling, her embarrassment, her misgivings, which still weighed in her breast.
                    And though the meeting went poorly and Helen was still tense from the confrontation, she had accomplished her mission. She was leaving. Mrs. Warter knew that; the icy disapproval in her voice told Helen the headmistress understood. So there was a degree of relief within the discomfort Helen now felt.
                    She turned around and slowly, pensively walked down the corridor. It was almost as if she played a game with herself, as she knew where she was heading, but tried to consciously pretend that she didn't, as she made her way down the hall, past the rows of arched windows, into a foyer leading to the dormitory. The line of doors, the girls' rooms, triggered a series of memories, thoughts of a time a few years previous when this was her home, when she was a pupil of the academy, not a teacher. When the biggest thrill was from an prohibited radio or another girl's movie magazine collection, when the lights of Broadway and Hollywood were unreal dreams, yet more real than the breadlines and turmoil of the world outside of the academy.
                    Helen stood before the door of a room that had been her room, hers along with two other students, which two depended upon what year she thought back to. She began to reach for the doorknob, but stopped. The students were in class, and she had the authority as a faculty member to enter any student domicile, yet she felt like she was intruding. Not that she expected to find anything, like the magazines she fondly remembered, nor would she have any inclination to report the students if she had found something. But she wanted one last look before she left.
                    As she quickly opened the door, Helen heard a yelp. On the bed to the left of the door, what had been Helen's bed were two teenaged girls, both of whom were naked. Helen didn't know either of the girls; she taught the younger children. Standing in the doorway, unable to think of what to say, Helen watched as the smaller of the two girls, the blond, jumped up and grabbed a robe from the floor. The other, the larger, dark-haired one, pulled herself further into the bed, draping the sheet over her up to her eyes. They both looked frightened. The blond laughed nervously.
                    “Please don't tell,” said the dark-haired girl, her voice cracking.
                    Helen stared at the floor. Her face burned. Her muscles felt like they were electric wires. The three of them were silent, unmoving. “I won't tell,” Helen said in a quiet monotone and shut the door.
                    She turned around and began to walk quickly. As she passed through the corridor of windows, rain had begun to fall in a light sprinkle outside, tapping lightly at the glass, and sending swirling, distorted shadows dancing along the length of the corridor.