Reach Out and Touch Faith

Ivy tangled with boxwood and ancient stone as the tires crunched along the gravel drive.

Julian, ever the artist, felt instantly enchanted. The musty scent of damp moss mixed with the perfume of age. A tapestry of secrets from the past. The scene begged to be captured. Etched, written, or painted. Every detail of the old English manor whispered stories waiting to be told. The fountain in the motor court splashed. Its uneven gurgle resonated with mystery, while the mansion stood watchful and silent.

The chill of the weathered stone seeped into Julian, blending with his. Children clustered on the steps, their bags strewn across the lawn, as the deep, silent forest pressed close to the brick giant. This would be his home for the next chapter of his life. Nerves prickled beneath his skin, but he sensed he would carve out a place for himself, a haven of solitude and peace. The chatter around him faded. It left stillness. The wind paused, the gravel settled.

Silence enveloped him completely.

The place he always found.

In the quiet moments of his childhood, he would retreat to the corner of his room, a place where sunlight danced, and he could, too. Those memories clung to him like the scent of old books. A refuge from a confusing world. The car halted amidst the busy arrivals, the sound of tires on gravel slicing through the chatter. Mr. Ice shifted into park, and his fingers drummed a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, an unconscious outlet for his tension. He glanced at his son, his movements betraying his unease even as he tried to maintain composure. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. His jaw clenched briefly before he spoke; a reservation clouded his eyes.

"I’m sorry your mother—" he said, his voice catching as he lowered his eyes, unable to meet Julian's gaze. Silence hung heavy. "All your things were forwarded. You should have everything you need."

Julian gazed at his father, pain in his eyes, confused about his mom, but he knew in time, he would learn what happened. He wished he were as close to his father as he was to her, but the two just never seemed to fit. It wasn't for lack of trying. They spent time together and, in doing so, realized just how different each was. Julian remembered some summers back when they decided to build a treehouse. An idea meant to help them bond. Julian envisioned a hideout filled with sketches and art supplies. His father approached it with precision. A ruler and toolkit in hand. The project didn’t take off. They were too different.

Julian's fingers hovered over the edge of the car window, reaching for something unseen. Although quiet, he yearned to be more. He wanted to be seen, to be noticed, to be admired perhaps, but not in a boastful way. It was hard for him to make friends. He remembered the art contest, the first time he truly felt invisible. His painting, a splash of blues and greens, depicted a bustling city under a starry night. It hung unnoticed, while others got their moment of acclaim. He listened as names were called. None of them his. The applause echoed harshly. That moment lingered, reinforcing his yearning to be acknowledged.

Julian's father patted his hand lightly. "Your accent, son," he murmured, attempting a casual nod. "It's... well, maybe it's something that girls..." His words trailed off, a slight tremor betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath his composed facade.

Julian felt his shoulder tense under his father's touch, the unsolicited advice igniting a storm of emotions. His stomach twisted in knots as memories of laughter and mockery replayed, freezing his breath. He tightened his grasp on the strap of his bag, clutching it like an anchor as he instinctively touched his throat—unspoken words against his fingertips. The fear of being singled out again urged him to escape. He opened the door, eager to leave the uncomfortable conversation behind.

“I love you, son,” Mr. Ice said softly, turning back to the wheel. “We’ll see you at home at semester's end.”

Julian closed the door, slinging his pack over his shoulder, and watched the car disappear, the crunch of gravel echoing through his bones. The sound chilled him. He pressed his thumb into his palm. Alone and adrift, he walked toward Divergent Academy, ready to begin. Using the tip of his shoe, he gently smoothed over the car tracks in the gravel. Disappointment lingered about his dad, but his parents were not experts in this world. This was uncharted territory for all of them, including himself. Was this the place where he would finally feel seen?

He was about to find out.

He mounted the massive marble stairs. Silence settled as the surrounding students became still, as all eyes were on him with every step as he headed towards the ornate oak doors. In a new direction on this journey called life, perhaps holding answers to why he was here. The groan of the ancient wood echoed through the air, urging him forward.

As Julian stepped into the mysteries of a new path.

* * *

Julian pushed open the door to his new home, his belongings tucked into a quiet alcove by the desk. Among his collection, a slightly worn sketchbook lay on top, its edges dog-eared and pages filled with charcoal landscapes and imagined worlds. The room stretched wide, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, which smelled of leather, melted candles, and the passage of time. Scents that stirred emotion and longing to belong.

His heart stuttered– it felt like home.

A directory for The Divergent Academy rested on his bed. He flipped through its pages. Fourteen professors, one thousand- one hundred twenty-two students, sixty-one set to graduate this year. Thirty-nine new arrivals. An unlucky number, he felt a sudden twist of anxiety in his stomach. What if this number foretold trouble or rivalry, a sign that things might not go as smoothly as he hoped? The thought crossed behind his eyes as they landed on a face from his past.

Fletcher Reed.

Fire-Man.

Fletcher, in all his blazing glory, was here too. Embarrassment surged through Julian as if a coat of ice had formed over him. He dropped the book, pressing his thumb into his palm, feeling the cold bite. Icy tendrils crept over his fingertips, his breath clouding the air in faint misty puffs. He couldn’t dwell on Fletcher. How could he be here? Julian wanted a fresh start, a chance to meet new people, but now his past threatened to freeze his intentions before they could thaw. As he began his breathing exercises, warmth gradually crept back into his skin, melting the frost. The grayness of ice began to crack, and gradually, warmth returned to him.

He could focus again.

Absently, he hung up clothes, sorted shoes and personal belongings, and lined his shelves with books he couldn’t live without. Soon enough, his world would be altered by school, but until then, he wanted the ability to dream. His eyes traced the spines of some of his favorites, artists he admired, as he reverently placed them beside the others. Movement through the glass caught his eye. He hesitated, then approached the window.

He opened it, gazing out at a world more beautiful than he had imagined. The gardens were enchanting. Whispering promises of transformation just like he hoped for himself. Gravel paths invited him to explore new directions, weaving between boxwood shaped into intricate knots. Reflecting pools mirrored the potential within, tranquil and deep. Blossoming trees released earthy, sweet, and spicy scents that enveloped him, an awakening to new beginnings. The scene was a living tapestry, an inspiring backdrop for his own story of change.

Looking out, he understood why his parents had chosen this place. They must have hoped he’d be safer here. Warmth, gardens, and sunlight—everything to melt away the ice inside him. For now, all he felt was warmth. He needed to explore, to touch the beauty, to breathe it in up close. Grabbing his bag and slipping his phone into his pocket, he dashed for the door. He craved adventure while he still could. Maybe he’d find his quiet place in the garden. Maybe this would turn out all right.

He hurried down the grand staircase, feet barely skimming the polished wood, the scent of wax teasing his nose. Sunlight from the transom spilled across the floor, a golden beacon drawing him outside. The doorknob shuddered as he turned it, releasing a sigh, as if the old house exhaled. Sunlight split the darkness, momentarily blinding him. Outside, students clustered by the rails, chatting in groups. He squinted, then slipped on his sunglasses, the world softening to half-light. That was better.

Until he saw Fletcher.

And Fletcher was smiling at him.

Fletcher’s smile turned into a sneer.

“Hello, Iceman. Come to join the party?”

Julian wanted to thumb his palm.

The stare off grew. Julian looked away and began descending the entry steps, heading towards the gardens. Suddenly, the air shifted around Fletcher as he stuck out his meaty arm, halting Julian's forward motion. Heat shimmered, blurring the surroundings, while an acrid scent began to rise. The groupies gathered. Their eyes wide, all too aware of the confrontation unfolding.

“Whoa, whoa there, little man.”

Their eyes locked again. Julian’s hands felt the cold, the color draining to gray. He knew the signals now. Cold, followed by frost. His hands were tingling.

“Still short, I see.”

A laugh came from Fletcher’s followers. Julian lowered his glasses, looking across their tops. “Short can be as powerful as arrogance, Fletcher,” he replied calmly, his voice smooth and confident. Where this came from, he wasn’t sure. He remembered the last altercation so long ago. Fletcher, in the ice. Exploding out, ice flying. The shame he felt for being scared. The darkness on his jeans. He wanted to be strong, not live in fear. He was determined to take his anger and use it for good, not a weakness. When needed.

He heard a faint crack of ice.

The groupies let out a chorus of ahhs, then silence dropped, heavy as the air before a storm. Julian sensed the temperature shift as Fletcher clenched his fists and moved in.

“You want a rematch?” he asked, eyes becoming embers, smoldering anger towards Julian. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Julian exhaled, determined to defuse the moment. He only wanted to reach the garden, not to rekindle old conflicts. He drew on his anger. For the first time, he could see it as a strength. It empowered him. "How long have you carried this?" he asked, meeting Fletcher's gaze without fear. The ice crackled louder.

“Could it be that possibly, you’re just mean?”

Expression drained from Fletcher like a valve opening, his fists balled tighter, growing larger as flames licked their surface. He had heard this before, a quiet conversation in the living room of his old house. Between his mother and father. It echoed. Julian turned away and started down the steps again, heading to his destination.

“Maybe all this showing off is just you compensating,” Julian said, holding his fingers a fraction apart. “Grow up, Fletcher.” It was out. In the air. And Julian knew it was a mistake. He couldn’t go down this path. He was becoming what he didn’t want. He was becoming Fletcher. His eyes darted to a nearby sign, flickering in the pattern of dancing shadows, ‘No unauthorized use of power——’ He was afraid it foretold the events that were yet to come. A light started flashing from the shadows, silent and blue, mirroring his heartbeat.

The groupies snorted, returning their eyes to Fletcher. His hair ruffled as if a breeze danced through it, his brow crinkled, making his eyes menacing. His lips quivered as his thumbs dug deeper into the sides of his hands. Blue flame ignited over his right fist like the ignition of a gas stove. The heat rose as he brought his arm to bear on Julian’s back.

“Temper leads to danger, Fletcher Reed," a voice sternly spoke. "Do not turn me into the lord from whence your power hails."

It cut through the tension, precise, sharp, arrogant, and calm, from the shadows unseen. Each syllable fell like the rasp of a file. Professor Ferox walked out of the shadows as Julian and Fletcher turned towards the voice. Silence drowned out the tension. Fletcher dropped his arm, the flame guttering. The crunch of the gravel broke the silence as another car arrived at the Academy.

* * *

​

The building rose into view as the car rolled onto the gravel.

The same crunch was heard by both Julian and Elias.

Elias Snow tried to take it all in. He still struggled with control, and the flood of sights, sounds, smells, and movement threatened to overwhelm him. Over time, he had learned to tune things out, but sometimes it all piled up. He brushed his sleeve, peered out the window, and caught sight of a commotion on the steps. A professor and a group of kids were in a heated conversation. He lowered the window as the car crept closer, the breeze ruffling his dark hair. The professor was scolding a tall, red-haired boy, but Elias couldn't make out the words. The gravel crackled like popcorn. His glacier-blue eyes swept the scene, finally landing on a shorter boy at the bottom of the stairs. With a backpack and a light gray suit, he stood out like a beacon. As Elias watched, a single snowflake drifted inside the car, settling on his sleeve like a delicate, icy token of mystery.

His heart stuttered.

He felt oddly familiar.

It started snowing in the car.