Autumn Stirrups and Shifting Sands. The Pony Chronicles, #4

The room was small in a way that felt deliberate, as though the walls had been measured to fit exactly one person and her doubts. Melanie Goodwit stood just inside the doorway of the dormitory, her duffel bag still on her shoulder, and let her eyes travel across the narrow bed with its gray wool blanket, the wooden desk pushed against the wall beneath a window that faced the paddocks, the empty wardrobe with its door slightly ajar.