(n.) The pleasantness of a word's sound.
she spoke of nights she would never experience and dreams that would never come true
he found himself clinging onto every word, desperate to make them a reality
[Dead Poets Society]
𝐈...
𝐎𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 in hand, in the corner of one of the many pews found in Welton Academy's hall. She had submerged herself into the words of Homer, drowning out the chatter and stares she recieved. The boy who had sat next to her ten minutes prior hadn't stopped staring at her, eyes boring into her untidy curls. She gazed up at him, eyebrow raised in question. He adjusted his blazer and slid closer to her. "Hi," he greeted, "What are you reading, gorgeous?" he questioned whilst giving her his most charming smile. "Kneel down and you can read the name for yourself," she simply replied, moving her eyes back to her book. His smile curving into something more genuine as his eyes softened. "Good to have you back, Williams," said Charlie Dalton, draping his arm around the girl's shoulders. "Good to be back, Dalton," she relied with a small smile. The sound of bagpipes filled her ears, causing her to turn around and watch as boys holding banners entered the room. She couldn't help but scoff as some of her best friends were walking past them. Charlie turned to her, smirk still etched on his features and rose an eyebrow. "Do they seriously have to do this every year?" she asked as they lit the candles. "It's tradition darlin'," he responded while stretching his legs out.
She looked up at him, rolling her eyes as she groaned out,"Tradition is just pressure from dead people."
All attention turned towards the headmaster, Mr. Nolan, as his booming voice filled the hall. "One hundred years ago, in 1859, forty-one boys sat in this room and were asked the same question that now greets you at the start of each semester. Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?" All the boys stood in unison, Charlie pulling Ophelia up with him, disregarding the fact that she wasn't addressed. "Tradition. Honor. Discipline. Excellence." Ophelia watched the lifeless faces say these four words, imagining her own looked just the same. "In her first year, Welton Academy graduated five students. Last year we graduated fifty-one and more than seventy-five percent of those went on to the Ivy League. This, this kind of accomplishment is the result of fervent dedication to the principles taught here. This is why you parents have been sending your sons. This is why we are the best preparatory school in the United States." Ophelia hated the smug look etched on Mr. Nolan's face when he received applause. She couldn't help but feel uneasy once his gaze fell upon her for a moment and had to fight the urge to squirm. "As you know, our beloved Mr. Portius of the English Department retired last term. You will have the opportunity later to meet his replacement Mr. John Keating, himself an honor's graduate of this school and who, for the past several years, has been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School in London." Said teacher stood up and gave the audience a nod. Ophelia couldn't help but notice the glint in his eyes. It looked as though he knew something they didn't and she started to wonder what this man had in store for them.
