Prelude
Saturday.
The day-long culture festival was a foolhardy madhouse of commotion. Everyone’s smiles and frowns, their excitement, enthusiasm, and passion—all of it contributed to the final campfire that scorched the night sky as it reached grandly to the heavens.
Then it was Sunday.
The responsibility of cleaning all traces of the idiotic commotion rested on the shoulders of the festival committee executives and the student council. They checked that each and every class’s exhibition had come to a close, verified that the garbage was thrown out properly, and cleaned up the remnants of the campfire.
That year, they held a modest commemorative party in an obscure corner of the gym for the retiring third years. The acting chairperson, who was not prone to tears, said, “I have no regrets.” Then he cried and buried his face in the bouquet he’d been handed amid applause. As she patted his back, the president, who also held the same bouquet in her cleaning glove-clad hands, flipped her hair.
“Right. I have something I want to discuss with everyone. I—”
She said it like it was nothing.
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