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fluidly about something that bothered him was when he’d first told his mother about the anxiety he felt every day at school. Coincidentally, they had talked around the same table just after breakfast. She’d laid a comforting hand on Ian’s and smiled softly. It’s going to be okay, you’re fine, she’d said and the words had echoed warmly through his mind for some time afterward. Soon after, she made an appointment for a therapist. He hoped to achieve a similar result with Wasley: an explanation that would make him feel less insecure.
    When he described the dream, Ian lingered on the details of the field and the frantic, thick layer of clouds. “It was a dream, but everything seemed more real than anything that I’ve seen when I’ve been awake.” Wasley’s interest peaked when Ian started to describe the man who had appeared in the field, and how his expression had remained so calm in the midst of the chaotic storm. After Ian recited the man’s ominous message, Wasley held up his hand to stop him from relating any further details.
    â€œDid he say ‘Phineas’?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
    â€œYeah, I’m positive. Why?” Ian looked up, and felt his lips purse in an expression of interest and partial confusion. Wasley laced his fingers together and placed them behind this head.
    â€œHave you heard that name before, Ian?” When Wasley addressed him by his name, Ian felt his brow furrow.
    â€œNo, I haven’t. Does it mean anything important?” Ian didn’t avert his gaze to the reflection in the table. The smudges that he had left previously wouldn’t have let him anyway, but that didn’t cross his mind. The possibility of his dream having some importance captured his full attention.
    â€œWell, as I remember, the name originated from Greek mythology: a king of an ancient city, or something of the like. But the man I’m thinking of was a controversial figure whose existence is still debated today among particular circles.”
    â€œWho was –?”
    Wasley interrupted the incoming question with a raised finger. “Supposedly, he sat on a hilltop for several months during the war.” The professor’s icy blue eyes focused on an indistinct point behind Ian. The usual warmth flowed out of his face and its expression didn’t invite questions but instead demanded that he carefully listen. “This was before The Dust started to erode the world’s structures. He sat there and predicted the end of the war, and when his friend finally found him, Phineas said that the Earth would be ruined and humanity must migrate underground.”
    Ian nodded as he revisited his dream, and imagined the man sitting on top of a hill surrounded by the vicious grass. He wondered if those rolling hills were the ones Phineas had occupied while he formulated his prediction. Perhaps it was the same location where he thought of the omen he related to Ian, and Phineas was some kind of eternal prophet who silently calculated the fate of humanity. Maybe he never left the hilltop, but instead became a permanent fixture, melding with the chaos of the winds and the clouds which endlessly raced against the sky.
    â€œHis friend brought the message to other people and they ultimately decided that it was the best course of action.” A smile broke through Wasley’s stone façade. “Of course, you won’t find this in any history book. It isn’t an official account of the government’s decision to rebuild. Those texts would most likely tell you that Senator So–and-So heroically lead the citizens to salvation from the crumbling cities.” His smile lingered for a handful of moments while he brought his hands back down into his lap and quietly chuckled. Ian noticed that his instructor’s eyes glazed over with the cloudy film of nostalgia, and welled up slightly.
    Ian finally found his voice.