The Piper on the Hill

The quickening gray light of predawn filtered through the slats of the blinds, turning the cinderblock walls of Room 303 a pale blue. On any other day, Sam Ihle might have slept through it. But not today.

A low, reedy wail pierced the stillness, rising and falling in mournful tones. At first, Sam thought it was part of a dream—maybe the background music to a dream he couldn't quite remember. But it got louder. And clearer.

Then it hit him.

Bagpipes.

“Andrew?” he croaked, still half-buried under his comforter.

Andrew McBride groaned from across the room. “You hear that too?”

“I was hoping I didn’t.”

The notes danced up and down the scale now, swelling with confidence. It was unmistakable. “Flower of Scotland.”

In their quiet dorm perched on the hill above Seabrook University’s main campus, the usual sounds of an early morning were squirrels, wind in the pines, and the occasional garbage truck. Not this.

Andrew peeled one eye open and looked toward the window. His voice was raspy. “What time is it?”

Sam fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, knocking over a water bottle and his glasses in the process. “Five seventeen.”

Andrew let out a low groan and rolled onto his back. “Why would anyone be playing bagpipes at five seventeen?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Funeral? Sunrise military funeral?”

Andrew sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What military funeral starts before dawn on a Saturday?”

Sam shrugged and shoved his glasses on. “Only one way to find out.”

He pulled back the curtain. The soft, gray light of morning was still clinging to the corners of the sky. The trees on the hill below swayed in a light breeze, and the grass glistened with dew.

And sure enough, climbing steadily up the incline in front of the dorm was a figure clad in a dark green kilt and matching jacket, his silhouette framed by the rising light.

Sam blinked. “Is that—?”

Andrew was already at the window. He squinted. “No way.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“That’s Andrew McRae.”

Sam turned to look at his roommate. “You’re Andrew McBride. He’s Andrew McRae.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “I know who I am.”

“But what’s he doing here?” Sam pressed his forehead against the glass. “He graduated last spring. Didn’t he get that job in Edinburgh?”

“That’s what he said at his grad party.”

McRae reached the crest of the hill and paused, silhouetted dramatically against the soft lightening sky. His bagpipes blared another chorus of “Flower of Scotland,” the sound echoing off the dorms and library down below.

The third-floor windows of adjacent rooms started sliding open. Heads peeked out. One of them shouted, “Hey, Braveheart! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

McRae didn’t respond. He just started walking a slow circle at the top of the hill like he was in some kind of Celtic ritual.

Sam opened their window. “Oi, McRae! What the hell, man?”

McRae looked up, face breaking into a wide grin. “Sam! Andrew!” he bellowed, lowering the pipes. “You’re up!”

“No thanks to you,” Andrew called. “Why are you on campus playing the pipes like you’re summoning William Wallace?”

McRae laughed. “Come down and I’ll explain!”

Andrew turned away from the window. “This feels like a trap.”

“I mean,” Sam said, tugging on sweatpants, “when has McRae not been a walking bagpipe-themed trap?”

“Good point.”

But curiosity was already clawing at both of them.

They threw on hoodies and sneakers and shuffled down three flights of stairs, stepping out into the morning chill. The grass was still wet and their shoes soaked quickly, but the sound of the bagpipes had stopped. Sam half-wondered if they’d hallucinated the whole thing.

But no. There he was. Andrew “Redbeard” McRae. In the flesh.

McRae was sitting cross-legged at the top of the hill, bagpipes in his lap, a steaming travel mug in one hand and a huge grin spread across his bearded face.

“Lads!” he called.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “You’re real.”

“I better be,” McRae said, taking a long sip. “Brought this coffee all the way from town.”

Sam stared at him. “You have five minutes to explain before I start throwing acorns.”

McRae patted the grass beside him. “Sit, sit. It’s a beautiful morning. And don’t tell me you’re averse to a little minstrel music, Sir Tristan.”

“When it wakes up the whole campus on a Saturday morning, yes,” Sam countered.

Andrew sat, cautiously. “Did you lose a bet?”

McRae chuckled. “Nah. I was in town for a wedding. Figured I’d come say goodbye.”

Sam frowned. “You already said goodbye last year. With kegs. And fireworks.”

“And a pretty moving toast, if I remember correctly,” McRae added proudly.

“So what’s this, then?” Andrew asked. “The encore?”

McRae looked out over the horizon. The first glints of sunrise were peeking over the tops of the trees, casting gold across the rooftops of campus buildings.

“When I was here,” McRae said slowly, “I used to do this once a semester. Climb this hill before dawn. Play the pipes. Wake the birds. Sometimes the RAs. I did it alone most times. Just me and the music.”

Sam crossed his arms. “You never woke us up.”

“You guys slept like rocks,” McRae said. “And I was usually half a mile away, closer to the quad.”

Andrew squinted at him. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re back.”

McRae reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black velvety case. He flipped it open to reveal a silver ring with a green stone.

Sam leaned in. “Is that—?”

“An engagement ring,” McRae said with a grin. “For Isla.”

“You’re proposing?” Andrew asked. “You’ve only been dating—wait, two years?”

“Two years and change,” McRae said. “She always loved the stories about me playing up here. Said it was romantic. Crazy. And she liked crazy.”

“So you’re proposing here?”

McRae nodded. “She’s meeting me in half an hour. Thought I’d pipe a little beforehand. Let the old dorms hear one last song.”

Sam let out a breath. “Dude.”

Andrew shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a romantic lunatic.”

McRae raised his mug. “Guilty.”

They sat there for a while, watching the sky go from gray to soft pink to golden orange. Birds began to stir in the trees. A dog barked somewhere down by the student union. A couple of early risers jogged past, one giving McRae a thumbs-up and muttering something about “bagpipe guy.”

“Do you miss it?” Sam asked after a while.

McRae nodded. “More than I thought I would. Not just the hill. Not just the pipes. The people. Late-night debates. Coffee-fueled cramming sessions. Mancake Night Mondays with Jack Ebner. Losing three hours of your life to some spontaneous dorm hallway karaoke. Professor Johnson’s maps test in World History.”

Andrew chuckled. “You never sang. You just played the intro to ‘Amazing Grace’ over everyone.”

“I was accompanying,” McRae said with a smirk.

Another moment of quiet.

Then Andrew asked, “So what happens if she says no?”

McRae looked at them with calm certainty. “She won’t.”

“How do you know?” Sam asked.

McRae shrugged. “Because she believes in impossible things. And because she’s willing to meet a mad Scotsman at sunrise on a campus she never went to, just because he said it mattered to him.”

Sam leaned back on his elbows. “That’s… actually kind of beautiful.”

“She’s something,” McRae said, brushing a spot of lint from his kilt.

From down the hill, a figure appeared—petite, with long dark curls, bundled in a hoodie and scarf, hands stuffed into her pockets. She was walking toward them, head tilted in curiosity as she took in the scene.

McRae stood. “There she is.”

He looked at his two old roommates. “Thanks for coming down.”

Andrew blinked. “We were already up.”

McRae laughed, clutching his bagpipes, and then strode down to meet her.

Sam and Andrew watched from the top of the hill.

They saw the two of them meet halfway. Saw McRae drop to one knee. Saw her gasp and cover her mouth. And saw her nod, quickly, joyfully, throwing her arms around him.

Andrew exhaled. “Told you he was a lunatic.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah. But the best kind.”

They sat in silence a while longer, watching as the sun climbed higher and painted everything gold—the trees, the rooftops, even the hill beneath their feet.

Then Andrew said, “Still. Five seventeen.”

Sam nodded. “Ungodly.”

They both stood, stretching.

“You want breakfast?” Andrew asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But we’re making him pay.”

As they walked back toward Hardwick Hall, the sounds of laughter echoed behind them—two figures embracing on a hilltop, bagpipes slung over a shoulder, and a new chapter just beginning.