Workshop Woes

The diner was humming when Mia pushed through the door, bell jingling faintly above her head. The booths were full, the air warm with the scent of sizzling bacon and overbrewed coffee. Vinyl seats creaked beneath customers shifting for comfort, while forks clinked against plates and conversations layered over one another like threads in a well-worn quilt.

She slid into the booth near the back, her usual corner. Her coat was still damp from the fog outside. As she reached for the menu—out of habit more than hunger—a pair of voices caught her attention.

"…canceled it just this morning. No warning, either."

"Wasn't that the student leadership workshop? The one with the university reps?"

Mia's fingers froze on the laminated page.

Her eyes lifted slowly, subtly, toward the booth two rows over. A man and woman in middle-aged work uniforms were sipping coffee, their conversation easy, casual—but what they said rang sharp in Mia's ears.

"Yeah," the woman continued, shaking her head. "My niece was going. She said it just vanished off the calendar. Something about 'rescheduling conflicts.' Real shame."

Mia's heart thumped hard once.

She reached into her bag without thinking, pulled out her journal—but then her fingers brushed something else: a paper coaster. White with faded red print, ringed already by the bottom of her coffee mug.

She flipped it over.

And with a quick flick of her pen, she began scribbling.

Names. Time slots. The backup venue she'd researched two weeks ago just in case. She was already calling up a list in her head—alternate facilitators, available campus rooms, the possibility of running it virtually if needed.

Each letter pressed harder than the last.

The coaster absorbed the ink unevenly, warping slightly with moisture—but the words were clear.

Mia stared at the list for a beat longer, her pen poised in the air.

Frustration coiled under her skin.

They hadn't even sent Sarah a notice. No time to prepare. No chance to respond. One more instance of opportunity slipping through the cracks—unless someone caught it.

She tapped her pen twice against the table, steadying herself.

Sarah had worked too hard. One disruption couldn't be allowed to dissolve momentum. Especially not now, when she had just begun to believe in her own pace.

Resolve flared.

She folded the coaster gently in half and slipped it into her pocket. She'd deliver the update in person. No texts. No delays.

Her mug sat untouched, the coffee lukewarm now.

She stood.

But before she could leave, a shimmer of color caught her eye.

Pinned beside the community flyer board—a laminated poster in bold type: City Hall Public Meeting – Policy Review: Educational Resource Access

Right next to it, crooked and half-covered, was the flyer for the workshop.

Still up.

Still hopeful.

The contrast was sharp.

A plan disrupted. But not destroyed.

Mia's gaze lingered.

Then she reached into her bag, pulled out a marker, and carefully added a small note beneath the workshop flyer: "Update incoming. Watch this space."

She stepped back, letting the smell of hash browns and fresh toast fade behind her.

Outside, the morning was shifting toward daylight. And so was she.

But the tension didn't dissolve once she left the diner. If anything, it sharpened. She walked with purpose, her breath visible in the chill air, her fingers brushing the folded coaster again and again in her coat pocket.

At the next corner, she ducked into a print shop. The clerk glanced up, startled by her urgency.

"I need three dozen copies," Mia said, sliding the coaster across the counter. "Enlarged and legible. Same font, clean edges. Matte finish."

The man raised a brow. "From a napkin?"

"From a plan," Mia replied.

It took twenty minutes. Enough time for her to check her phone, confirm the workshop listing had indeed vanished from the official bulletin, and revise two more fallback options in her head.

When the copies were ready, she rolled them tightly, tucked them into a mailing tube, and headed directly toward campus.

She passed the old lecture hall Sarah had once called suffocating.

Passed the stairwell where she'd sat crying after that first presentation.

Mia's expression didn't change, but the pace of her steps did.

By the time she reached the student union board, her hands were sure. She removed the original flyer with surgical precision, replaced it with the new version. A QR code linked to a document with the updated schedule, fallback facilitator bios, and a note at the top:

Rescheduled. Empowered. Still happening.

Beneath it, she added one more line:

You matter too much to be canceled.

No signature. No initials.

But it would be clear.

Mia stepped back, took one final look, then turned and walked into the wind.

She would reach Sarah before noon.

With or without permission.

Because some futures deserved to stay intact.

Still, she wasn't finished. Not yet.

She stopped by the library steps, took out her phone, and began composing a message to one of the guest facilitators she'd worked with before.

"Emergency reschedule. Backup location secured. Can you confirm availability?"

The reply came faster than expected.

"Yes. I'll be there."

Mia let out a slow breath.

Even as systems failed, people could still be counted on. Sometimes.

She scanned the flyer board one last time before walking on. There were still traces of the old flyer visible underneath, its edges curling beneath the new print. A reminder of how quickly things could collapse—but also how cleanly they could be rebuilt.

The city hall meeting notice still fluttered beside it.

Educational Resource Access.

That phrase stuck in her mind longer than she expected.

She would attend that meeting.

Not to speak—at least not yet—but to listen.

Because if they could cancel Sarah's event without notice, they could do worse.

And someone needed to be watching.

Mia stepped off the campus path and into the flow of downtown, where people bustled with coffees and earbuds, all carrying burdens they wouldn't say aloud.

But she knew.

She'd carry some for them, if she had to.

For now, she tightened her scarf, picked up her pace, and headed toward Sarah's dorm with the rolled flyer tucked under her arm like a declaration.

One she intended to deliver herself.

The sidewalk shimmered faintly with dew as she crossed onto campus. Morning sunlight was beginning to burn through the mist, and with it, her urgency solidified into clarity. She was no longer chasing a disruption—she was shaping its response.

By the time she reached Sarah's dorm, she paused only once. Her hand hesitated on the doorframe.

Then she stepped in, unannounced.

The front desk attendant looked up.

"I'm here to leave something for Sarah Yuen."

The attendant nodded, already familiar.

She handed over the mailing tube, then added quietly, "Tell her it's still hers. All of it."

Then she turned and left before she could say more, boots clicking softly on tile.

Outside, the morning had fully bloomed.

But Mia didn't linger.

She had a city hall meeting to attend.