As Ethan was yanked through the painting, a hidden portal tugged him forward. Light spilled around him and—suddenly—he stood in a sun-drenched room where a colossal oak pierced the ceiling, its branches draped in falling wisteria. A glass roof poured sunlight onto the warm scent of sandalwood and old books. Canvases and scattered chairs framed little worlds of art; a sculpting wheel and pottery tools waited in a quiet corner.
Students moved like a living fresco: a pair of twins, one laughing as blue-red flames danced in his palms while the other skimmed rippling water; a jet-pack tinkerer bent over a curious gizmo; someone calmly using telekinesis to gather the chaos the twins left behind.
And there, the one who had pulled Ethan through the painted threshold—Jamie Bluebell, smile bright with secret invitation.
"Welcome to Mind and Consciousness Training," Jamie said with a quick grin. "Mrs. Skoglund will be here any second."
Before Ethan could blink, a woman stood in the center of the room.
Ms. Skoglund's long whitish-gold locks were gathered in a loose knot, streaked with charcoal from a morning of sketching. Hazel eyes, flecked with mossy green, gave her a calm, woodland presence. Her linen jacket bore faint smudges of paint, as if the forest itself had left fingerprints on her sleeves.
With a single, serene breath she spoke. "Settle down, children."
The effect was immediate: the twins froze mid-mischief, the tinkerer lowered his tools, the telekinetic student let the floating objects rest, and even Jamie eased into his seat. Ethan followed without a thought, as if the whole room had been tuned to her quiet authority.
"Before we begin," Ms. Skoglund said, "take out your gratitude journals and share one thing you're thankful for. Since we have a new student, we'll start with you."
Her smile found Ethan. "Young man, your name and your prompt."
"Ma'am… I don't have a gratitude journal," he admitted softly.
"One does not need to write gratitude to feel it," she said. "Speak it."
"I'm… Ethan Von Claude," he said, oddly proud, "and I'm thankful Grimore High found me. I wouldn't know what to do otherwise."
Finger snaps echoed around the room.
Next, the telekinetic boy rose. "My name is Cirano Varga," he said, neat gray hair glinting under the glass roof. "I'm grateful I finally cleaned the cobweb that drove me crazy this morning."
Snap, snap.
The twins followed—a girl with light-blue hair and a boy with tousled red.
"I'm Ryu Haerin," the girl declared, "and I'm grateful I saved my journal before my brother burned it."
Snap.
"I'm Ryu Sihun," her brother added shyly, "and I'm grateful I'm still alive after almost burning my sister's notebook."
Snap.
The jet-pack tinkerer stood. "I'm George Stuart. I'm grateful that my sixty-fourth jetpack test only half-crashed—it just needed quick adjustments."
Snap.
Finally, Jamie Bluebell grinned. "I'm grateful I finished my glass dalle de verre."
Snap.
Ms. Skoglund placed a hand over her heart. "I'm thankful I get to spend this class with all of you—and for the honey-lemon tea I had before coming here."
She clapped once, and a great canvas glided forward as if walking on invisible feet.
"Now," she said, "create your Hestia—your home. Paint, draw, build something that reminds you of it."
The room bloomed with activity, brushes and clay and soft mechanical whirs.
Ethan only stared at the blank canvas.
(I don't even remember… home.)
"What's wrong, Ethan?" Ms. Skoglund asked gently.
"I don't remember my past ma'am," he said, voice low. "Besides my name—if that's really my name—and a girl named Cecil."
"Oh Ethan " she knelt besides him
"Home is not a house nor a place it's a feeling of safety,love and comfort ...ones house cannot be called home without that ...it's simply just bricks and mortar " Ms.Skoglund said
Think of someone, something, even a moment that gives you that safe space—that's your Hestia. Your true home."
She tapped his chest lightly. "Right here."
"Thank you, Ms. Skoglund," Ethan whispered, and finally lifted his brush.