Correspondence Regarding the Dormitory Sprout

Fiction

Dear Mother, I have arrived at the Sprout. The transit was long, but the air here is thick with the scent of crushed mint and old parchment. My room is in the third lobe. It is smaller than the brochure suggested, and the walls are a pale, translucent pink that pulses slightly when I speak too loudly. The Dean reminded us that the dormitory is still in its adolescent phase. This means the floor is occasionally tacky, and I have to spend an hour every morning massaging the doorframe with a calcium salve so it does not seize up. It is tedious, but the light that filters through the ceiling membranes is a soft, golden hue. It makes reading much easier on the eyes. *** Dear Mother, The first week has been a test of patience. The plumbing is the most difficult part. The veins that carry the water are sensitive to temperature, so if I take a bath that is too hot, the wall in the adjacent room begins to weep a thick, clear mucus. My neighbor, a senior student in Botanical Law, was quite cross about it. Furthermore, the walls have begun to itch. It is a systemic reaction to the autumn pollen. I spend my evenings applying a cooling aloe paste to the corners of the ceiling. It is a messy chore, and my sleeves are permanently stained green. However, I have noticed that if I read my poetry aloud, the pulses in the walls slow down. The room feels calmer, and the air grows cooler. *** Dear Mother, I think I have finally synchronized with the room. I woke up today to find a small, fragrant blossom had grown from the bedside table. It is a deep violet color, and it smells faintly of honey and ozone. I discovered that the building responds to a specific state of contentment. When I stop worrying about the dampness of the carpets or the way the vents sigh in their sleep, the architecture settles. The walls no longer itch, and the light has shifted to a warm amber. It is a strange way to live, tending to a house as one would a pet, but there is a quiet comfort in knowing the building wants me to be happy. I feel less like a tenant and more like a guest in a very large, very slow creature.