Life, the professor had assumed, could only run smoothly. Sun streamed through the open classroom windows, capturing the scene in bright yellow light. The desks, though empty, seemed to stand attentively, waiting for the next class to arrive. The professor sat down and smiled; all was well. Yes – the tricky years of puberty and bumbling adolescence were over, and so were his college days and the woeful attempt of marriage he still refused to talk about yet somehow popped up after conversing long enough with his mother. He was a teacher now, to wealthy children and their wealthier parents, and it had proved both wonderfully well paid (thank the Lord!) and excruciatingly boring. The children would come and go. Their parents too, unless they plagued the next generation with another nasty little bugger for him to deal with. And so far, he hadn’t the joy of teaching a child genius – unless he counted Jonathan of course . . . He briefly enjoyed remembering the boy. He was bony and pale and built like a stick. He was also the best student the professor had ever seen. Now, the teacher never handed out such statements lightly. In fact, when he had first received the boy’s essays as homework, he struggled to recall a face to attach to the lilted scrawl that was ‘Jonathan Brown’. Unremarkable, poor, and a scholarship kid – that was who he was. But on paper, Jonathan shon. He wrote with colour, bright, vivid colour, in a world where all the photographs were in shades of gray, and all the newspapers said things of woe, transforming the once vague and mundane words into leaping descriptions that made the professor’s heart soar. When he wrote, a metaphor was not just a metaphor, but a writhing image conjured with intent and grace. After he graduated, the professor felt saddened to see such a student go. And with Jonathan gone, the days continued on in the old fashion: wake up, work, read and sleep. He was a clock with the cogwork slowing down. His heart soared a little less, the colours dulled, his imagination shrunk and withered. He sent letters, but they were never replied. He had thoughts, questions, but they remained unanswered. It was as though the boy he once taught had vanished off the face of the earth. Where had he gone? What did he do? The professor slept uneasily, tossing and turning as his thoughts consumed him even in the night. But one day, Jonathan replied. It arrived without fanfare, unceremoniously one morning. The professor had almost thrown it out alongside the other unimportant complaints. Then he saw the scrawling handwriting – that same old jolt of fervour running through his veins and taking him back to the years before. Dear Mr Brown, Firstly, I want to apologise for never replying to your letters. I’ve been– Here, the professor stopped reading. His hand was shaking too much for his eyes to follow. He swallowed and continued on. –travelling far too much, eating far too little, and writing so much less. I know it was unkind of me, and I know I should have had the courage to face you and all your questions. For that, I am sorry. But I waited. Of course I waited. How could I not? How could I come back to you empty handed? Every country I visit, every person I see, every culture I unravel has been in the name of creating a final glorious story. And so, back in Britain, armed with a heavy tan and newfound love for bananas (a very common fruit where I’ve been!) I give you this. And below, the professor felt with clumsy, quivering fingers, was a manuscript. He sat down in his armchair. He placed the manuscript on his lap. He felt for his glasses, positioned them carefully on the bridge of his nose. And pushing all other thoughts out of his head, he took out his red pen, opened the first page, and began to read. The world soared into colour once more.