Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 7

I threw on a hoodie and jeans, still half-dazed from the dream. The morning air outside was sharp, but I needed it, needed the sting to remind me I was awake now. That the house I saw crumble, the laughter, the voice, it wasn’t real. Or maybe it was. In another timeline. Another life.

The library’s just down the hall, past lockers plastered with faded stickers and the vague smell of gym socks. But something about today made the walk feel... different. Heavier. Like I was dragging that dream behind me, like a ghost I couldn’t shake.

The library was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt padded, like every sound had to tiptoe. Morning light filtered through the tall windows in soft, buttery stripes that painted the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the air, floating like lazy snowflakes in the beams of light. The air smelled faintly of old books and that industrial lemon scent the janitor used.

And there she was.

Betty sat at our usual table, fourth from the window, second row from the back. Her blouse was a pale cream color that made her skin look even softer than I remembered. She didn’t see me at first; her head was bent, focused, a few strands of hair falling loose around her face. She was flipping through a textbook slowly, carefully, like each page meant something.

I walked over, my footsteps muffled on the carpet. She glanced up the moment I reached her, and her smile was effortless, nothing flashy or wide, just this quiet, knowing curl of her lips that made the ache in my head ease.

"Hey," she said, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

I sat down, and for a second, I just watched her. The way she sat, upright but relaxed, her pencil tucked behind her ear. The sun kissed the crown of her hair and made the brown strands shimmer like they’d been dipped in gold. She looked like she belonged in that light.

“Okay,” she said, her voice gentle, turning her notebook so it faced me. “Let’s start with the easy stuff.”

I scoffed softly, not meanly, more like I was bracing myself for impact. “Easy for you. You probably came out of the womb solving for x.”

She laughed, the sound light and warm, like chimes in a summer breeze. “Please. I used to cry over fractions,” she said, reaching for her pen. “Then I realized numbers don’t bite… unlike some of my classmates.”

She nudged my shoulder with hers, just a little bump, but it lingered in my skin. I smiled before I could stop myself.

Her presence did something to me. Calmed the storm, quieted the static.

She leaned closer, her eyes scanning the notebook. I caught the faintest trace of her perfume, something floral but soft, like jasmine and rain. Her fingers tapped the page, and her nails made the tiniest clicking sound against the paper.

“You’re not dumb, James,” she said, still focused on the notes. “You’re just bored. Your brain works, you just don’t trust it yet.”

Her words hung in the air. I blinked.

No one had ever said that to me. Not like that.

I didn’t answer. I was staring at her hands, small, steady, graceful. I’d never realized how carefully she moved, like she respected everything she touched. She flipped the page and her brow creased the way it always did when she was trying to simplify something complicated. Her lips pressed together, just a little, just long enough to form a line, and then parted as she prepared to explain again.

“Don’t let anyone, not even your dad, decide your worth,” she said softly. “You’re more than what people say you are.”

She didn’t look up immediately. She wasn’t saying it for effect. She meant it. And somehow, that made it hit harder.