Forks was exactly what the brochures promised. Towering evergreens lined the narrow road, their branches heavy with moss, and a thick mist hung low between the trunks, curling around the asphalt like something alive. The town itself appeared in glimpses—a gas station, a diner with a flickering neon sign, a hardware store with a wooden porch that sagged slightly under the weight of years.

The road curved, and the trees opened just enough to reveal a sign, dark green with white lettering, rain beading on its surface.

Then the trees parted.

The campus sprawled before you in a way that felt almost cinematic. Old brick buildings with ivy climbing their walls sat beside modern glass-and-steel structures, all of it framed by the deep green of the surrounding forest. A clock tower rose above the quad, its face pale against the gray sky, and students moved between buildings beneath a canopy of umbrellas, their voices faint and scattered.

A few cars were parked along the main drive, and a security booth sat at the entrance, its window fogged from the warmth inside. A young man in a campus jacket leaned out, waving you forward with a practiced smile.

Somewhere behind you, a car door slammed. Laughter drifted across the lot, bright and easy, from a group of students heading toward the union. One of them—a tall boy with a shock of dark hair—glanced your way, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he turned back to his friends.

The air smelled like wet earth and pine, and the campus hummed with the low murmur of new beginnings.