Strings of Destiny

19

She stared at the edge of the desk, at the faint groove where years of pens had pressed through paper. "It feels like conceding," she whispered.

"No," Keane said, his voice quiet but firm. "It's choosing wisely. Strength isn't only persistence, it's discernment. You are not defined by one semester's lectures. Your body of work, your investigations, your scholarship... Alara, those already stand as remarkable contributions. You can allow yourself this space."

The words settled into her like weight loosening, though the ache of relinquishing the classroom remained. She thought of the students' faces, the energy of a room alive with questions. She thought of Monday, of the chemicals entering her bloodstream, of the unknown terrain ahead. And slowly, she nodded.

"Alright," she said, her voice steadier. "I'll ask for a replacement. And I'll focus on my research."

Martin leaned forward slightly, his tone warmer. "Good. That's the right decision. And remember, your investigation alone is extraordinary work. It's more than enough to carry you through this season, and when you're ready to return fully, the classroom will still be here waiting for you."

Alara let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She rose, sliding her bag back over her shoulder. "Thank you, Martin. Truly."

He stood as well, offering a reassuring nod. "You're not alone in this. The department will support you however we can. Just let us know what you need."

She met his gaze, grateful for the steadiness there, then turned toward the door. The handle was cool against her palm, grounding. She stepped out into the hall. The corridor was hushed, the kind of silence that seemed to absorb even the sound of her breathing. Alara lingered there, one hand still on the strap of her bag, staring at the dull shine of the floor. The conversation with Martin Keane had given her clarity, but clarity didn't quiet the tremor in her chest. She reached into her purse, fingers brushing the smooth surface of her phone. For a moment, she imagined calling Eddie, hearing his voice, anchoring herself in the warmth she had felt only hours earlier in the car. But then the thought of Emily came, bright and sharp. He was with his daughter. She couldn't take that from him, not now. Not when their time together was already so fragile, so guarded. With a quiet exhale, she slid the phone back into her purse. She needed to get out of the building without stepping into that storm again. The flashes, the jeers, the questions, they pressed against her memory like bruises. Then she remembered: the library's side entrance. If she cut through the stacks and slipped out the narrow door, she could reach the faculty lot without facing the main gates. Her heels clicked softly as she walked the dim corridor, past noticeboards and framed photos of past graduating classes. The library was cool and faintly scented with old paper; her pace quickened, weaving between the tall shelves until she found the narrow door at the back. Outside, the air struck cold against her face. A few cameras swung her way, voices rising.

"Alara! Over here!"

But the distance worked in her favor. She hurried across the lot, unlocked her car with shaking hands, and slid inside, breath ragged. The door shut, muting the noise. She gripped the wheel, knuckles pale, and pulled away. Her hands trembled so badly she had to steady them against the leather as the campus disappeared in the rearview mirror. At the red stoplight at Denny, Alara's fingers were clenched too tightly on the steering wheel; she forced them to loosen, flexing against the leather. Her breath still carried the ragged edge of panic, but the quiet of the car was beginning to settle around her. The vibration startled her when it came, the phone buzzing in her bag, muffled but insistent. She fumbled for it, balancing the wheel with one hand until she brought the screen up. Eddie.

"Lara?" His voice spilled through, low and threaded with something urgent. Then it softened, almost breaking. "Hey, love."

She shut her eyes for half a second, the word filling her like warmth in cold marrow. "Hey," she whispered. "Hi."