I want to paint a picture for you. Imagine it’s the morning, just before the first attendance of the day. The Commons, empty just a few minutes before, is now bustling. But there’s one sound I want to draw your attention to.

It’s the sound of two small wheels moving quickly across the floor. Every few seconds, they skip as the case they carry rolls over another bump. Finally, round the corner comes the person pulling the case, long brown hair pulled back. She sets the case down, plugs in a blue-and-white crock-pot, and sits at one of the tables.

Down the hallway outside the Commons, two more figures are walking quickly, gesturing animatedly to each other. One of the figures, dressed all in black, is quite tall, while the other figure, clothes featuring more vibrant colours, is, in comparison, fairly short. Between the two of them, the shorter figure’s gestures are sharper, more aggressive, while the taller figure’s are defensive, exasperated. Only a few words of their conversation filter through the din of the Commons: “Wiggling”, “Manjerine”, and “Homestuck” are three of them.

Yet another character has appeared, and she, like the previous one, appeared so silently not many people immediately noticed. She has long, straight black hair. By now, she’s begun a clapping game with one of the previously-mentioned characters, the somewhat taller one. Another figure, smiling nervously, giggles and offers some dark assessment of the situation. Her comment complete, she turns back to a sketchbook in which she’s drawing.

From the other end of the hallway comes a new figure. He’s blond and skinny, and, though he’s been at school for a while now this morning, has only elected to come into the Commons now. In one hand, he carries both his laptop and his mouse, the cord swinging beneath. He looks around the hallway and the rooms adjoining it with alternating thoughtfulness and mirth, and, when he sees one of the figures mentioned earlier, immediately approaches them, places his hands on their shoulders, nods, and says one single word his eyes alight with meaning.

Have we picked the day it is yet? No, I suppose we haven’t. Imagine it’s a Tuesday. Tuesday means one of our characters isn’t here yet. A dark-haired, somewhat more muscular man, one with a slight smile permanently fixed on his face and a habit of talking slowly and with such a voice that one finds it difficult to believe him, no matter what he’s saying. He will arrive later, but only as his first class of the day is just finishing up. When he does, he will write in the attendance book as reason for his lateness the same word he’s written the last fifty or so times… “Bus”.

Another tall figure has appeared in the Commons. When and where from, no one knows. He pulls out his phone to check in, sighs, then sits down limply. Upon his head he used to wear a fedora; now he goes hatless, a shirt emblazoned with the words “got tin?” his only brand. He pulls out a gigantic book titled “Accounting”, sighs once again, and places it back.

I’m going to miss them.

I’m sure we all are.

It was wonderful to have known you, Twelves of the Round Table.