Knocking on Heaven's Door | 𝐒𝐀𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑

1 - WINTER WONDERLAND

The courtyard was like a page ripped out of a storybook. It was a winter wonderland plucked straight from the tales of Jack Frost and the Snow Queen, bound at the corners by blue landscape and creatures that shivered in the stark coldness.

Frost clung to the tips of grass blades, melting under the feet of anyone who walked across the open field. Trees, their branches dying and their leaves falling, were adorned with icicles like ornaments on a Christmas tree. The storybook illustration was made complete with great buildings like castles. Its turrets rose so high that it was a wonder they didn't protrude through the thin clouds, and the bricks that lined the edifices were reminiscent of a princess' tower.

But Stanford Law School was no wonderland, and Bellona Wesson knew that better than anyone. The painting that depicted Stanford was one pulled from the dark ages - breathtaking at first glance, but if you were to experience the scenery firsthand, you would realize just how deceiving beauty could be.

For one, the cold that nipped at Bellona's skin was harsh. The chills and gusts of wind made her wrap her gloved hands over her face, the cotton that laced her fingers making an attempt to protect her fragile skin from the brutal atmosphere. Her features were numb. The cartilage on her nose was stiff and senseless to the touch, her cheeks red in reaction to the prickly needles the wind whipped across her face, her lips peeling, chapped, and practically falling off in layers as she picked the dead skin away. It was as if she was being punished for simply coming into contact with the frigid air.

Her mind didn't offer an escape from the domesticated tundra, either. In fact, it did quite the opposite. As she trudged across the courtyard of the Stanford campus, her boots shining with dew as they came into contact with the frosty grass, her thoughts lingered on the wretched class she'd just walked out of: Civil Procedure.

Sure, she'd learned useful information from that class. She'd learned to litigate a civil lawsuit and to weasel through the intricacies of court. But, above all, that class had taught her one thing: as respectable as it was to have a diploma from Stanford, it was absolute torture to get that diploma in the first place.

Bellona was grateful for the wave of heat that washed over her when she opened the door to the library. It normally would have bothered her - feeling like she was walking into a sauna rather than a room full of books - but given the circumstances, she didn't mind. She would welcome any escape from the cold with open arms.

"Bell!" a voice rang from behind the front desk.

Bellona whipped around to see who'd called for her, and with a grin, she responded, "Hey, Summer."

The curls in her hair bounced as she strode towards the desk. She pulled her beanie from atop her head, wiped at the stray, static-ridden hairs the beanie's absence revealed, and walked around the desk to take a seat next to Summer.

Summer Buchanan - Bell's best friend since grade school, and the quintessential reflection of the woman she shared her last name with: Daisy Buchanan. Daisy Buchanan, the golden, prized possession of Jay Gatsby, was a woman Summer had looked up to since they read The Great Gatsby in the ninth grade. And no wonder - any woman who could attract a man like Gatsby was a woman Summer wanted to be.