Somewhere, a class resides on a hill.
It is high up, away from the hustle and bustle of life. It lies in the middle of the greenery, ivy climbing over it, almost disguising it. It's Japanese lettering swings quietly back and forth with the wind. The windows glitter as sunlight falls onto it.
The gardens are full to bursting with daffodils and tulips. It's a joyous array of colour, with the odd sneaky daisy or poppy adding a fresh zest to the neat, human arrangements. Grass grows long, happily, swaying too, a vibrant green that, when it comes into contact with the blindingly blue sky, makes you cover your eyes with your hand and squint, it's so bright. Rocks are randomly dotted here and there, used as stepping stones or sitting stones.
The forests around it chitter with wildlife. There's the rustle of a squirrel, the squeak of a mouse, the gentle whoosh of a bird as it settles onto a tree. And the larger creatures, deer bounding into clearings, rabbits jumping near rivers, fish of all sizes splooshing up into the air for a moment before sinking back into their watery abode. This area is slightly duller, as the trees act as a shield for sunlight.
Somewhere deep within this forest, long-forgotten, lies a fountain pen. It has been pecked at, and trampled and swept away by small floods so many times there is no identification left on it. It has been obliterated from the wider history of the world. Those who remember the pen don't remember it now.
But there it lies, still dripping a little ink, still wrought with life, on one fine, limited day.
