"Aren't those Goldleaf school uniforms?" one of the women on the bus asked curiously, narrowing her eyes.
Glancing at his red uniform, he sighed and stared out the window.
Through the reflection, he saw the calm face of the woman beside him. She had neatly tied her brown hair into a bun, her suit making her look more like an elder sister than a mother.
Someone scoffed loudly. "Letting him go to such a place is a joke! I bet you forced him."
The passenger who had asked about the uniforms spat the words out. She was middle-aged, maybe in her late forties, with brown skin and a body that filled the bus seat completely.
'Forced?' The question lingered in his mind. Was there a sane person who chose to go there?
If only his mother had flinched at the woman's words. Her calmness almost felt like a smirk.
"Don't frighten her," a middle-aged man interjected from the front. He slightly raised his newsboy cap, then looked back at the woman, giving a tight smile. "My son attended the same school. He changed for the better."
"Better? He needed therapy after that place. He came back scared of everyone. We couldn't even relax around him always worried he'd snap. You call that better?"
She added, "That isn't a place anyone should call a school. I don't understand why they allow such a thing to exist!" The woman's hatred for the school was obvious in her voice.
His shoulders stiffened as he tried to calm his nerves. That woman knew the school and hated it like that. What hope was there for someone like him who had no idea what awaited him?
He folded his arms, gripping his elbows as he focused more on the view outside.
"They tried shutting it down," the man replied. "Parents refused. They wanted the school to stay exactly as it is. And I get why. My son doesn't run with gangsters anymore. He's in his final year studying law."
His frown deepened. He didn't think the man was helping; if anything, he made it worse, twisting his stomach with whatever he imagined. A place to straighten out gangsters?
As for the woman's words, who was she aiming them at? He was the one suffering.
Then, through the window, he spotted it. A long brick fence with bold words on the gate: Goldleaf Advanced Secondary School.
His heart rate quickened. After a three-hour journey, he had arrived at the hell they called a school.
The bus came to a stop. His mother turned to him. "We're here." Then she stood up, took a suitcase, and led the way out.
For a moment he froze, staring outside. Would it change anything? He let out a sorrowful sigh before he followed outside.
As the bus pulled away, they faced the towering iron gate that fit his dread perfectly.
He never thought a school's name could feel alive.
Below the name was the motto: Education is to Learn. The motto felt as if it had a will of its own.
He looked at the long brick fence, but all he saw were tall trees, almost a forest. No buildings in sight. Was it made this way on purpose? If so, they had succeeded. He felt too uneasy to step inside.
Even the surroundings outside the school were rural. No busy streets or shops, only a few houses here and there.
He glanced at his mother. He didn't want to go through that gate, but she walked forward.
Beside the gate was a small cabin where an old man sat. He was a man in his sixties, his hair almost completely gray. He should have looked old and weak if not for his sharp eyes and the cold air around him, which mixed with the stench of cigarettes.
"Good morning," his mother greeted politely.
The guard looked up. "Morning."
The guard stare lingered at the boy, giving him the creeps. He stiffened, reminded of those strict teachers he had feared in the past. He looked away. 'What's with that look?'
The guard turned back to his mother.
"This is my son. He is going to attend this school," she said, giving him a brief firm grip on his upper arm as if to present him.
"Fill in your name here," the guard said, handing her the guest book. "Follow this road, it'll lead you straight to the office."
"Thank you."
They followed the brick road as directed, his mother pushing the red, medium-sized suitcase while he carried his backpack.
After five minutes with no sign of the office, the crease between his brows deepened.
There were mansions, but they didn't seem like offices—maybe teachers' houses?
Trees lined the road as they slowly dropped blossomed petals. At his side, from afar, was a mountain peak with clouds gliding over it.
Too beautiful, as if they were trying so hard to hide something inside. For a moment he wondered if the rumors were exaggerated. What kind of place was Goldleaf?
Soon, they saw some colonial, old-fashioned buildings that he could tell were the offices. They were made of stone, with bold characters at the top spelling "Administration Block."
He had arrived in the morning, expecting classes to be in session, so he thought he wouldn't draw attention. However, in the office, three students stood against the wall.
Looking at them, he didn't see anything strange. They looked like normal students, except for the strange gazes they threw at him—sizing him up.
"Someone needs to feed that dude or something," one of them mocked from nearby as he walked through the corridor.
It wasn't the first time he'd been mocked for his slender frame, which many saw as delicate, so it shouldn't affect him. He wanted to believe that, but it still felt like something new.
"At least he's pretty. Look at him. Like an idol."
"Give it a week. You won't recognize him." When the guy said that, they burst into quiet laughter, almost failing to control themselves in front of the office, even though they had been summoned after making mistakes.
Then, one voice cut through the chatter. The one in the middle. "Aren't we forgetting something?"
The group turned to a boy with raven-black hair, a smirk playing on his lips. He tilted his head, eyes on the newcomer. "What did he mess up?"
At that question, the boys exchanged glances before curiously shifting their attention to the newcomer, guessing what he could have done.
For a moment his steps halted. They were right. What had he messed up?
Memories of his former school flooded back. He had endured anxious nights due to bullying. He didn't have friends. His grades were sorry. He didn't even have a talent to call his own.
What was it then? Even he wasn't sure, or maybe he just pretended not to know. But it didn't matter now. He was already here.