Shanon was right. Teachers’ Camp hasn’t changed. The tile in the middle of Pages Hall’s conference room has been broken ever since. NEAP Hall was still farthest from civilization; Quirino Hall, still small and intimate; Quezon Hall, still humid and jam-packed; and Benitez Hall, still with the most number of participants ever hungry to learn. Everything looked the same—old, scary, freezing. But why do we keep coming back?
We all know the reason. And I don’t think words will ever give it justice.
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