The journey began at the first light of dawn, before the sun had even risen. The cold morning air whipped my face as I climbed into the taxi. The flight and the drive to campus flew by. I gazed at the clouds below, losing all track of time, my thoughts entirely focused on him. I absolutely had to see him, even for just a moment, see him with my own eyes and be certain that everything was alright. When the taxi dropped me off in front of his building, I took a deep breath. The campus was teeming with life; young people strolled by, laughing, laden with backpacks. The next day, I found myself in the dimly lit hallway outside his dorm, suddenly much more nervous than I would have expected. I could hear muffled voices and the bass of a radio coming from another room. My hand hesitated for a moment before striking the wood. Was he angry? Had I crossed the line? When the door opened, his roommate seemed surprised to see me, as if he sensed that my unexpected visit concealed more than my friendly smile suggested. He was holding a dishcloth, his gaze flickering between me and the hallway, as if assessing the situation. He stared at me, noticed the concern in my eyes, then nodded slowly.
He didn’t say a word to warn my son. He stepped aside silently, and I entered, with that strange, heavy mixture of doubt and certainty that had haunted me like a shadow since the phone call. The student’s room was a mess, a chaotic reflection of a busy mind. The smell of stale coffee and old books hung in the air. Countless sketches littered the floor among the half-empty cups on the table. I recognized the nature of his work: meticulous drawings of dark, derelict architectural spaces that he transformed on paper , step by step, into luxurious and breathtaking environments. It was as if, in his drawings, he was desperately trying to repair what he felt was deeply damaged. My son was sitting in the
