The Wind Blowing Westward

Mr. Holland had never been given a chance to consider what he felt. His sunken gaze turned to the young man, dull eyes skimming the edges of his jumbled thoughts. Talking about the past had stirred up emotions he had thought he long forgotten. Jon's darker skin was highlighted by the flickering flames like a halo. It was a beacon, the old man thought, feeling almost drawn into his presence. Nothing like his pale skin which was nearly translucent. He clenched his trembling fingers, the pointed tips digging into his palm like daggers. There was little blood flow to darken the skin at the point of pressure, instead seeming to become thinner as paper ready to tear.