The morning sun filtered through the old oaks lining University Drive as Lance made his way to breakfast, his tablet bag slung over one shoulder. The dining hall buzzed with early activity—the clink of plates, soft conversations, and the rich aroma of coffee. He had arrived early deliberately, aiming to bypass the main rush and give himself time to settle into the day.


    The digital display above the serving line flickered between 7:42 and 7:39 as Lance collected his breakfast: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and an apple that was unnaturally red. He chose a quiet corner table near a window, watching other students trickle in while reviewing his class schedule.


    His first class was Digital Art Foundations in the Morrison Media Center. During orientation, the gleaming glass building had caught his eye. Its modern architecture stood in stark contrast to Greylock''s predominantly Gothic style. Lance pulled out his tablet—a refurbished Wacom he had saved up for by freelancing logo designs throughout high school. The screen bore a few scratches, and the pressure sensitivity was imperfect, but it embodied everything he hoped to achieve here.


    Since he was twelve, Lance had immersed himself in digital art, starting with simple MS Paint doodles and advancing to more sophisticated programs. Creating worlds from nothing but pixels and imagination felt magical to him. His mother had supported this passion, even when money was tight, recognizing how it helped him navigate the world''s strange inconsistencies.


    The dining hall gradually filled with students. Lance checked his phone—8:17 AM—though the wall clock read 8:23. He gathered his things, aiming to arrive early for his first college class. As he crossed the quad, the Morrison Media Center loomed ahead, its glass surfaces reflecting the morning light in intricate patterns. The reflections twisted and turned, creating a kaleidoscope effect that made his head spin.


    Inside, the building thrummed with technology. Multiple computer labs lined the corridors, each door marked with detailed scheduling information. Lance found Room 204 with ease—a spacious studio classroom with individual workstations arranged in a semicircle. Each desk featured a high-end monitor and tablet setup that made his own equipment seem outdated by comparison.


    Other students began to filter in as Lance chose a seat near the middle—neither too eager at the front nor too hidden in the back. He noticed a girl with electric blue streaks in her dark hair setting up two stations away. Something about her seemed familiar, though he was certain they hadn''t met. She caught his glance and offered a quick half-smile before returning to her setup.


    Professor Elena Mendez entered the room precisely at 9:00, her entrance marked by the jingle of bangles and the swish of a paint-splattered smock over her professional attire. "Welcome to Digital Art Foundations!" she announced, her enthusiasm filling the space. "I''m Dr. Mendez, and this term we''ll delve into how classical art techniques converge with emerging digital technologies."


    As she spoke, her hands swept through the air with animated vigor. Paint-splattered fingers betrayed her artistry, a stylus perched behind her ear like a painter''s trusted tool. Lance found himself leaning forward, captivated by her passion as she outlined the course structure and expectations.


    "Art isn''t just about making pretty pictures," she explained, pulling up examples on the main screen. "It''s about processing reality, questioning perception, and expressing truth as you see it. Digital tools give us unprecedented freedom to explore these concepts."


    Her words resonated deeply with Lance. He had always used his art to make sense of the world''s temporal oddities. His sketchbooks were filled with attempts to capture how time seemed to stutter and skip around him.


    During a brief pause, Lance glanced over to Maya, the blue-haired girl, and asked, "Have you ever tried to visualize time itself?"


    Maya looked up, her eyes meeting his briefly before she returned to her work. "All the time. It''s like trying to paint shadows," she replied softly.


    As Dr. Mendez guided them through their first exercise—exploring brush dynamics and pressure sensitivity—Lance noticed Maya creating fascinating patterns that folded in on themselves. Her work had an almost hypnotic quality that consistently drew his attention.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The class passed quickly, leaving Lance both excited and slightly overwhelmed by the possibilities Dr. Mendez had presented. She had assigned their first project: a series of digital studies exploring the concept of time—a topic that felt almost too direct given his experiences.


    With forty minutes until his physics seminar, Lance decided to explore the building. The corridors were adorned with student artwork, ranging from traditional digital paintings to interactive installations. He paused before a piece depicting a figure caught in multiple overlapping moments, uncomfortably reminiscent of his own temporal experiences.


    Blackwood Hall, the physics building, stood in stark contrast to Morrison’s modern aesthetics. Its Gothic architecture loomed against the late morning sky, gargoyles perched ominously above. Lance climbed the worn stone steps, their edges smoothed by generations of students, and entered a high-ceilinged corridor where the air felt heavy, saturated with history.


    Room 342 was a traditional lecture hall with tiered seating. Lance chose a spot about halfway up, unpacking his notebook as other students arrived. The clock above the chalkboard read 10:13, though his phone displayed 10:07. The discrepancy made his temple throb.


    Dr. Marcus Whitlock entered precisely as the tower bells chimed the quarter-hour. Younger than Lance expected, perhaps in his early forties, he had prematurely silver hair and intense eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He moved with deliberate precision, each step measured.


    "Welcome to Introduction to Temporal Mechanics," he began, his voice carrying easily to the back row. "This course will challenge your understanding of time''s fundamental nature. Is it truly linear? Is your experience of time objective or subjective? Can the past be changed, or is it immutable?"


    Lance''s hand tightened around his pen. The questions struck too close to home, especially after yesterday’s move-in day loops. As Dr. Whitlock discussed the observer effect and quantum mechanics, Lance felt a strange resonance building in his chest.


    "Time," Dr. Whitlock continued, "is not the rigid framework we imagine. Einstein showed us it''s flexible, relative to the observer. But what if it''s even more complex? What if our consciousness itself influences temporal flow?"


    The fluorescent lights flickered briefly, and Lance experienced a moment of severe déjà vu. He could have sworn he had just heard these exact words and seen this exact pattern of light and shadow. Suddenly, everything seemed to rewind—the clock hands shifted backward in sync, and a chunk of time vanished. The sensation was so strong he missed the next few minutes of the lecture, only tuning back in when Dr. Whitlock began discussing their first assignment.


    As students packed up their things, Lance noticed the clock had somehow lost fifteen minutes during the lecture. His phone showed the correct time, but the wall clock stubbornly resisted temporal reality. He gathered his materials slowly, watching Dr. Whitlock erase the chalkboard with methodical strokes and momentarily glance in his direction.


    Outside Blackwood Hall, Lance paused to look up at the clock tower. Its four faces displayed slightly different times, as if reality itself couldn’t quite agree on the moment. The stone raven above the entrance seemed to watch him with unusual intensity, its worn features expressing a knowing depth.


    That evening, Lance sat at his desk, trying to focus on Dr. Mendez’s assignment while Reid practiced serves against the wall with a tennis ball. The repetitive thump-thump-thump marked moments like a metronome, grounding him in the present.


    "How were your classes?" Reid asked, catching the ball and dropping onto his bed.


    "Good," Lance replied, sketching loose shapes on his tablet. "Interesting. The physics one, especially—it''s about time and perception and stuff."


    "Heavy topics for the first day," Reid commented. "Hey, want to grab dinner? Sophie mentioned they''re doing make-your-own stir-fry tonight."


    The dining hall was less crowded than breakfast but still bustling. As they waited in line, Lance spotted Maya from his digital art class sitting alone with her laptop, clearly absorbed in her screen. She glanced up briefly, meeting his eyes with a look of recognition before returning to her work.


    "You should join the tennis club," Reid was saying as they found a table. "No experience needed. Plus, it''s a great way to meet people."


    Lance nodded absently, his attention caught by the cafeteria’s various clocks—analog on the wall, digital above the serving line, and the timestamp on the TV showing campus announcements. None of them quite agreed on the current moment.


    That night, lying in bed, Lance thought about Dr. Whitlock’s questions regarding time’s true nature. The radiator clicked steadily, marking seconds that didn’t quite match his phone’s display. Through the window, the clock tower’s illuminated faces cast an otherworldly glow, their hands moving in ways that seemed to defy physical laws.


    Tomorrow would bring more classes and more chances to understand what was happening at Greylock. Maybe Dr. Whitlock’s theories would help explain the temporal anomalies he had always noticed, now seemingly amplified on campus. Or perhaps Dr. Mendez’s artistic approach would aid him in processing these experiences.


    As sleep approached, Lance’s last conscious thought was of the stone raven above Blackwood Hall’s entrance, its weathered eyes holding secrets about time’s true nature. The tower bells struck midnight—once, twice, three times—each chime resonating through his dreams like ripples in a temporal pond.