Lecture Hall Threshold
The arches of the lecture hall loomed tall, carved from pale limestone and latticed with ivy. Light streamed through stained glass windows, bathing the floor in shifting patterns of rose and gold. Sarah stepped quietly inside, her shoes clicking faintly against the waxed tiles.
Orientation week had ended. Today was real.
She took in the tiers of seats, the polished podium, the anticipation humming beneath the silence. Students trickled in, some alone, some in pairs. Notebooks opened. Laptops flicked awake. A low murmur started to rise.
Sarah chose a seat near the front, just left of center. She unfolded a blank notebook, smoothed the first page, and laid her pen beside it. Her fingers lingered on the cover—plain, navy, new.
She glanced around. The hall was larger than any space she'd studied in before. But it didn't overwhelm. It invited.
A breath. Inhale. Exhale.
She was ready.
Far away, in a corner not touched by sunlight, a quiet presence watched.
Mia didn't have shape now, not fully. She felt herself in echoes: a cool draft, a flicker in the window, a hush before a professor spoke.
She didn't know how long she would remain. She didn't know if Sarah would feel her.
But she stayed.
Just for this.
A man stepped to the podium, tapping the mic. "Welcome to Foundations of Social Structures. I'm Professor Grant."
Sarah's pen lifted instinctively. She jotted down the date, the course code, the lecture title.
But her mind wandered.
To a time when her notebooks were filled with someone else's advice in the margins. To mornings when a silent presence had steadied her.
The wind stirred faintly.
She looked up.
Nothing.
But she smiled.
Mia felt the shift. The memory. The anchor.
She had feared being forgotten.
But Sarah had not forgotten.
The professor clicked the remote, bringing up the first slide.
Sarah leaned forward, elbow on desk, chin in hand.
Her eyes caught a flicker—just the glint of light on a metal plaque.
She blinked.
It read: "Believe in yourself."
Small, almost hidden, tucked beneath the side rail of her desk.
Her smile deepened.
She didn't question who had left it.
She didn't need to.
The lecture unfolded. Concepts, terms, diagrams. Sarah took notes with deliberate strokes, her handwriting steady. She raised her hand once. Asked a question about systemic behavior models.
The professor nodded. "Smart. Very smart."
A few students glanced her way. She didn't shrink.
She just kept writing.
Outside, the wind picked up.
Trees bowed. Banners rippled. Birds scattered from the rooftops.
In the hall, Sarah finished the first page of her notebook.
She paused before turning it.
The lines were full. No blank corners. No margin clutter.
Centered at the bottom:
"This is the beginning."
Far beyond the arches, in places where light does not fade, Mia exhaled one last time.
It carried on the breeze.
A whisper.
A name.
She felt no fear.
Only release.
Only certainty.
And within that echo, beneath the vaulted stone and history of learning, Sarah sat taller.
Ready.
Present.
Whole.