Every school has a principal, but Principal L'Aurore was not like any other. Beneath the mid-March moonsong skies, she led her students through corridors that twisted like thoughts remembered upon waking.
Some days, when the ticking of clocks reversed, she would call for an assembly in the grand hall — no one ever knew when it began, but it always ended with twilight just drawn.
"Today," she said, her voice echoing across the starlit ether, "we shall ponder the Unfolding of Continuities."
The rest of the faculty never questioned her topics, for they were either entranced or too absorbed in their own associative drapes of time and shadow.