The moment I got off the bus, the glow of sunset beamed upon me as warm orange colored the tower tips and chapels in the horizon, so bright that I almost had to lay my fingers over my eyes. Under the lofty sky, the world was tranquil and peaceful. I found 72 Pigeon street with some effort and an introduction letter. The landlord lady was a friend of my aunt, and an admirable single old English ma’am. In front of her two story red brick house was a little garden, planted with Irish broom-tops, and white fences that hanged a small wooden milk box. I stayed in this house for five years. Met Andemund the second year, and he left me the forth year. I waited for him here another year.
I studied math in Cambridge, and my grades weren’t bad. My uncle once said that I’m an idiot that knows nothing but math. But after I met Andemund, I realized I’m still an idiot at math compared to him. The first time I met Andemund is under the blossomed apple tree of lil’ pink flowers under the library. Cambridge is beautiful in spring. I was carrying two erotic novels heading out from the library arched doorway, lingering, unwilling to meet my second year new professor. Words spread that higher mathematics had invited a well renowned scholar who mastered not only in logic theory and quantum mechanics, but also veered into cryptography. The amount of awards the scholar had could literally smash someone.