The Academy
St Esmeralda's Academy
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The bell in the west tower tolled six times, muffled by stone and fog. Outside, the bare branches of the elms scraped the dormitory window like bony fingers. It was another grey morning in 1982 at St. Esmeralda’s Academy.
Honey stirred beneath the thin wool blanket, breath clouding faintly in the cold air. The scent of old stone, polish, and damp fabric filled the narrow room. A brass alarm clock ticked beside a stack of textbooks, its hands stiff with frost.
The dormitory was still quiet. A distant toilet flushed. Pipes groaned. Somewhere, a radio played the end of a news bulletin—something about strikes in Yorkshire and an American satellite launch.
You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes. The uniform hung neatly from the old wardrobe (white blouse and blue plaid skirt for girls, white shirt and black trousers for boys). Beneath it, a letter pinned with a rusted tack; the one you received confirming your rare scholarship to study at one of England's most prestigious private schools. You consult your timetable: English, French, Chemistry, and History today. Sister Octavia would be watching for lateness again.
You gathered your towel and soap tin, padding quietly down the cold corridor to the shared showers. The water steamed, but the tiles were glacial. Someone had scrawled
God Save Us From Miss Thornrosein the condensation on the mirror—already fading. Back in your dorm, you dressed quickly, the brass buttons stiff under your fingers. From the courtyard below, bells chimed again—faint, distant, relentless. Another day of whispered rumors, forced smiles, and glances that lingered too long. Breakfast was waiting. Porridge, maybe. Burnt toast if you were unlucky. And always, those watching eyes. You straightened your collar, tucked your timetable into your satchel, and stepped into the corridor’s shadowed hush. (All characters at 18+)