The year is 1969. The setting: a gothic manor on Forsyth. A young woman walks down a richly carpeted hall. For days now, she’s heard footsteps following her every move, though each time she finds herself alone, a solitary maiden in the mansion. She’s taunted by a mischievous prankster—one elusive enough to evade her peripheral detection.
As Isabel Acevedo stood before the Washington University campus, one thing struck her—the trees. Despite the fact that it was April, the trees loomed naked over her. Bare, exposed and vulnerable without their familiar leaves to protect them. “I was a little scared,” she said, now from the comfort of her desk in the Central West End.