Ink Bleed Confession

v. humble abode

Glasgow, Scotland
J

une, 1986

‘The world may be smaller than you think.’

I didn't know who said those words and if they are exactly the same, but it feels like it is. It hadn't been a coincidence, as if the universe is actually playing its card again—interfering with my life. I don't know how to feel though—excited, wary, or…a bit of both?

The research paper…

In the bookstore…

My grandmother's neighborhood…

Lightly, I shook my head, snapping myself back to reality. Jumping to conclusions was never good—and overthinking only made everything worse.

Slowly, I exhaled, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath a little too long.

Fingers tightening around the cookie tin can in front of me, I furrowed my brows, hesitating at the small bell that hung by the fence.

For a moment, I just stood there, unsure. Then finally, my hand reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal as I pulled the dangling chain gently.

And then—I waited.

I tapped my feet on the pavement, eyes cast downward. A soft, unfamiliar lullaby hummed from my lips as I clutched the cookie tin close to my chest.

The sound of a door creaking open made my head snap up—and there he was.

He looked exactly the same. Only now, without his glasses, he seemed younger, somehow less distant. His hair was damp and tousled from a recent shower, sticking slightly to his forehead. A plain white shirt, brown trousers, and black sandals—it was an oddly casual look for someone who lectured at one of the country’s most prestigious universities.

From a distance, no one would guess he was a professor.

I caught the brief furrow of his brows, the flicker of confusion and recognition that passed through his eyes as he stepped closer. He remembered me—from the bookstore.

‘Selyne?’ he asked, voice low, almost cautious.

I gave a small nod and a sheepish wave.

‘Hi!’ I greeted, voice overly bright, a fixed smile on my lips. I wasn’t exactly happy—just swept up in the strangeness of the moment. The thrill of being here.

‘Why are you—never mind that. It’s not three weeks yet,’ he said, frowning, like that was the only possible reason I’d be standing in front of his house.

Nervously, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

‘Ah, yes. I know it’s not—’

‘Do you live around here?’ he cut in, glancing around the quiet neighborhood, then back at me, eyes scanning my casual clothes.

I bit my lower lip and shook my head.

‘I… no. My granny does,’ I mumbled. I watched his expression carefully. Then, realizing I was still holding the cookie tin can, I lifted it toward him.

‘Here. Um—it’s from my granny,’ I said, holding it out.

He hesitated, then took it from my hands, his gaze never leaving mine. He was waiting—for more.

‘Mira. Mira Timurov… she’s my granny,’ I added quickly.

His eyebrows drew together once again, his expression still unreadable.