The air is cold and damp, and bodies are huddled against the chill of the breeze that flows around the buildings and trees. The air is heavy with mist, veiling the horizon. All the light from the lampposts and windows hangs in the air, creating a haze like in a dream.
The snow crunches under foot as weary students trudge up the walk to the Beta Hall. The simple cube of the building seems more imposing in the spectral glow emanating from the windows, highlighting the iron rails of the balconies and extending just far enough to rest on the ancient oak standing in the middle of the drive, clinging to the last brown remnants of summer.
Across the field the common, the bell rings at McClain hall, chiming nine o'clock, the last bells of the night, and sending the still clear resonance to hang, trapped in the mists, mingling with the light. The old steeple, shining white, is just visible in the murky night, as it pierces through the vapors that surround it.
And still further beyond that stands, Mount Memorial Hall, oldest of the buildings. Almost unlit, save for a few lamps among the cherry trees, the yellow limestone creates a sharp contrast to the grays of the air around it. To walk into the hall is to step into another century. The oak floors creak and groan and echo off the walls ominously. The hall is like a palace of old Europe with its stone carvings, and the artwork hung everywhere. The stained glass window, above the central staircase, always illuminated by a hidden light shines in its colors, the cross somehow inspiring me every time I see it.
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