A grandfather stands outside of a school. Tears stream down his face, so he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief and tries to wipe them away. Still, the tears continue to come. Cars with mothers, fathers and other kids drive by. Some stare; most do not notice. The grandfather looks toward the school as he blows his nose, but glances quickly away again. There is a great pain expressed by the way in which his wrinkles arrange themselves that is the result of his own memories long since buried into deep graves within his mind; memories that now rise from the dead to haunt him. He hears the clatter of school shoes down the corridors of time, the air filled with squeals, taunts and laughter. He can sense commanders of Satan’s armies hovering next to his desk, scrutinizing the back of his head with heat ray vision while he struggles to remember the theories of dead men. Most of all, though, he recalls the windows. Not the windows themselves, but the function of the windows. And he knows that nothing has changed in the sixty years since his mother stood in this exact same spot with tears in her eyes as he shuffled slowly through the dark, toothless gape in the building’s façade.