A story in his head, a distraction, a hint of magic that ought not be there. That childishness, that distance, making it something other than what it was. A strange thrill that he hadn't had in the shortest little while.
An open window in the corridor allowed the cold wind of the outside world in. A small patch of snow made its way onto the tiles, along with some pine needles. A different voice in the drama. A sense of reverence in Oliver's fingers as he closed it. Once more, childishly. Thinking as deeply as he could, without really thinking at all. Magic in all things. A certain part of him searching, always searching, for what it was that he might do.
