Midterms arrived. Essays, projects, critiques. My life was suddenly filled with the normal, crushing weight of undergraduate work.
I spent late nights in the library, not investigating ghosts, but researching art history. I complained about grades with my new classmates.
The extraordinary had receded, replaced by the predictable stress of student life. And I found a strange comfort in it. This was a challenge I understood. This was a pain I could manage.