On the fourth day of John's return, Anna finally met Noah. After the holidays, this was their first meeting post-grades, where Anna brought along a gift wrapped in colorful paper to Mr. Smith. "Grandpa Smith, this is a sweet treat from abroad that John asked me to bring you." 

Mr. Smith, not one for sweets, smiled at her and said, “Take it upstairs, dear. Noah will enjoy it; he has a sweet tooth.” 

This was far from the truth, but Anna couldn't very well correct an elder. Resigned, she climbed the stairs, mentally drafting how best to engage Noah. 

But as it turned out, her worries were needless. Noah sat there, buried in a book, not sparing her a glance as he gestured toward a spot beside him for the package, treating her as if invisible. 

As she set it down and turned to leave, Noah abruptly spoke, “You must be thrilled with John’s return.” 

“Of course,” Anna replied honestly. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” 

Noah's expression darkened instantly, standing up with such force the chair skidded sharply. He fixed her with a cold gaze. “How happy?” 

Anna hesitated, taken aback. What did her feelings have to do with him? 

Closing the space between them, Noah’s sudden proximity made Anna reflexively close her eyes. The door shut with a resonant thud as he grabbed her arm, pinning her to the door, looming over her. “Tell me, how happy?” he demanded again. 

“Y-you’re hurting me!” she cried as she struggled, noticing her reddening arm. 

It seemed her protest finished off his mysterious ire, but not immediately. He gripped tighter, pinning her wrists, questioning her fiercely, “Say it!” 

“What do you want?” Anna shot back angrily, "I told you I'm happy about John being back—Ow—" 

Noah’s head suddenly dipped, teeth biting into her shoulder as if her answer incited him. His sharp canines sunk cruelly into her skin, making her cry painful tears as she pitifully protested, “Noah, are you crazy?” 

She gasped for air between sobs, “You’re all over the place! What is wrong with you?” 

“I am,” he admitted, murmuring against her wounded skin, vague yet fervent, “I don’t understand myself.” 

Loosening his grip, Noah gently tilted her face, wiping away tears with an unsteady hand. “I can’t stand seeing you happy.” 

“...” This psychopath can’t tolerate joy in others? 

Mustering all her strength, she shoved him away, spitting out a fierce, “We’re through! I won’t speak to you again!”

Fuming, Anna vented her frustration in a notebook destined for letters to her grandmother, drawing a multitude of pig heads labeled ‘Noah,’ before changing them to dog heads. 

Dogs bite, after all. Rubbing her bruised shoulder hurt, and she winced, doubling her artistic zeal, adding more ‘Noah’s to her sketches. 

That wasn’t the end. She vowed to tattle to Uncle John, and when she did, she’d announce to Noah directly: You bit me so hard I need rabies shots! 

John barely hid his amusement at her childish affront, offering her a band-aid instead. “Why did he bite you?” he asked with a wry grin. 

Relaxing in the chill air-conditioned study, Anna sat comfortably in just a pink plaid sundress, pure innocence in her expression, feeling untouched by the more dramatic assumptions adults might make from a bite mark. 

“He’s jealous of my happiness!” 

John chuckled, “Why are you so happy?”

“Of course! Uncle John’s return—it’s not wrong to be joyful.” 

Standing, John advised, “Don’t sit on the floor, too cold,” handing her a book, a firm paper-bound volume swirling with vine-like designs squarely encasing its title—The Great Gatsby.

“There’s something you need to understand inside,” John lectured, “Everyone has their own troubles. If you stand in others’ shoes, perhaps you can forgive them.” 

He saw her clash with Noah as a typical child’s quarrel needing no dramatic intervention. 

Taking John’s suggestion seriously, Anna resolved to read it diligently because he had instructed her to. 

Days later, John prompted her for thoughts on the book. 

She struggled with the deeper themes of American excess and one man’s romantic disillusionment, responding with childlike candor, “If I were Gatsby, I wouldn’t hesitate to kill Daisy.” 

John winced. “Daisy is someone Gatsby loves deeply.” 

“But if I don’t act against Daisy, she would eventually kill me—stopping danger before it erupts, isn’t that right?” 

John sighed... Anna’s understanding veered off course, yet he couldn’t enforce a change in her outlook. Each book comes with varied interpretations, even if they diverge from intended meanings. 

“Good critical thinking though,” he encouraged her.

Eyes sparkling, Anna asked, “So can I come to your study whenever to borrow books?” 

Unable to deny her, John agreed, nodding assent. 

This made for her most cherished summer, spending quiet afternoons in his study, indulging in shared scholarly pursuits. A simple look of perplexity summoned John from his book to join her in lively discussion on her chosen queries.

She adored John, and she cherished these serene, intellectual moments with him. 

...

Yet peace shattered a week before school’s reopening, heralded by a late-night visit from Mr. Smith Sr., bustled by the cool night breeze. 

Awakened by noise outside, Anna rubbed sleepy eyes, peering from the stairs while Professor Blake and his wife pulled on night robes hurriedly descending. John was already settled in the living room, disrupted by Mr. Smith Sr., accompanied by imposing men in military garb. 

“Where is Noah?!” Mr. Smith demanded, teetering on smashing a teacup. 

John calmly countered, “There’s no need to worry, Noah is quite capable, and speaks English fluently. He’ll manage overseas.” 

“Rubbish!” Mr. Smith retorted, pointing an accusing finger at John. “You got him a ticket and gave him money! What’s your aim?” 

Attempting to mediate, Professor Blake interjected, “There must be reason in John's actions.” 

Fuming, Mr. Smith settled, acknowledging the Blakes as longstanding neighbors. “John, I’ve always respected you, but unless you give me a satisfactory explanation regarding Noah, our relationship—"

Anna pieced the events together: John assisted Noah’s departure unbeknownst to Grandpa Smith? 

Noah’s education sessions with her seemed to have deeper roots in John’s intervention risks. 

Witnessing Mr. Smith Sr.'s seething anger, anxiety gripped her for John's sake. Yet John’s voice stayed steady, “He should know the truth that affects his life, about his unresolved issues, as you do too. He’ll be received by your relatives in Britain, and will return safely.” 

Mentioning old family disputes momentarily stilled Mr. Smith’s anger, while John reaffirmed, “I’m only fulfilling the requests of your kin. Perhaps Noah will be back by the start of term."

And just as John predicted, Noah did return on the first day. 

Summer leapt marvelously forward, with him gaining height, more linear in posture, carving an alluring fir-like silhouette. His spontaneous presence startled the housekeeper who, intending to dust the room, found him standing silently. 

“Back already?” she greeted, pivoting for the elder Smith. Rugged restlessness disrupted his meals and ease the whole week. 

“Help me”—Noah instructed mid-step toward the maid— “throw out all the stuffed toys from the cabinet.” 

Awkwardly, the dolls fettered behind glass encased the room with fixed gazes. 

“They...” she hesitated, “aren't these your favorites?”

Never before allowed trespass; till now, not one dared graze such prized possessions. 

The youth, fixated on the window, lingered toward an ebbing curtain, concealing an ambiguous Anna's form. 

"No," he replied resolutely, “not anymore.”

His focus had found a substitute. 

...

The emptiness overwhelmed the cleared room, Noah unfurling directly onto the floor, arms resting on his torso. Different portraits merged: Blake's mother’s art intersecting with Anna’s vivid reincarnations sporting skirts of varied splendor.

Anna’s accusatory, “What is wrong with you!” echoed roundly against the chambers of his mind as he mulled over her words repeatedly: “Noah, you're insane?”

No.

Inside him, a separate voice chorused quietly: “You simply want her.”

...

With Noah's safe return, the Smiths and the Blakes could finally exhale.

The start of the next grade passed smoothly. Standing poised before peers, Anna took the stage for her uplifting award, ardor sprawling over the audience as the Principal handed the achievement into her grip. 

From below, Professor Blake heralded her, "That’s Anna, our little girl." 

Drama ensued among parents: 

“Such a lovely child, clearly a good egg.” 

“Aye, better than my son, who only earned the ‘Three Goods’ accolade.” 

“Three Goods is splendid! For my daughter only placed fifth overall.” 

Professor Blake: “...” 

Upon Anna’s descent, Professor Blake sidled over, whispering for future gallant conquests, “Next time, we aim for top three!” 

Buoyed, Anna pledged a determined colossus of ambition: “I’ll work super hard!” 

Following, Noah took stage, representing the second grade’s first chorister with distinction.

Whispers among students grew, precisely the girls’. Heads craned, whispers swirled: 

“Which class? He's stunning!” 

“Tenth grade genius, reputedly aloof.” 

“Gosh, totally my type!” 

Among reprimands, one blunt “looks girl-like” epithet bubbled from boyish roughs ending with, “what’s good in that?” 

Yet Noah’s oration, vibrant and resonant, left chastisement hovering, delivering eloquence and weight, tilting from bitterness toward inspired motivation—a monumental spectacle for speaker and crowd both.

Professor Blake noted to Anna, “Smith siblings outdo themselves.” 

Anna fumed internally: Someday, she too would elevate from the podium, outwit and eclipse the biting Noah.

Noah’s fame swirled, solicitous among staring beams. Girls cluttered near windows of his class, hoping for fleeting glimpses, spurred by his distant gaze.

Recognizing the enchantment, Anna pleaded silently, “...what havoc this blue beauty brings…”