chapter 7
1084 Words
The hostel was massive, more than Noelle had imagined. Rows of dorm rooms stretched on either side of a long hallway, lights humming faintly overhead. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the faint scent of laundry and the occasional hint of perfume from the girls who already lived here.
Noelle carried her bag quietly, feeling the weight of it and of everything else on her shoulders. Weeks had passed since she arrived at the school, weeks of classes, long walks in the winter countryside, scribbling formulas in her notebook, and endless, gnawing thoughts about her mother and the life she had left behind.
She had been accepted into the school’s hostel that morning, officially moved in after a few weeks of commuting. The hostel room she was assigned was a single dorm shared by four. Three beds had names already on them.
Lia, Samantha, and Asle.
Noelle didn’t speak much as she stepped inside, letting the door click softly behind her. The room smelled faintly of lavender and paper. Posters of bands, landscapes, and motivational quotes covered the walls. Her roommates looked up from their unpacking, sizing her silently.
“Hey, you’re Noelle, right?” Lia said first. Her voice was calm, friendly, with no trace of judgment. “I’m Lia. That’s Samantha,” she added, nodding toward a tall girl arranging her desk, “and that’s Asle.” She smiled at Noelle, open and patient.
Noelle offered a small nod. “Yes.” Her voice was soft, uncertain, not yet used to conversation beyond necessities.
“You’ll love it here,” Samantha said quickly, as though reassuring both Noelle and herself. “It’s… a lot, but it’s okay once you get used to it.”
Noelle nodded again. She wasn’t sure how to reply, but the warmth in their faces was strange and, somehow, comforting. They weren’t like the bullies in the city who sneered or whispered behind her back. These girls seemed… human. Real. Understanding.
Asle, the quietest of the three, just shrugged and went back to unpacking her books. Noelle noted the subtle comfort in that gesture the space to exist without pressure.
The hostel room felt overwhelmingly bright, too open, too full of sound and movement. Noelle’s gaze fell to the far corner, the darkest spot, at the end of the long room. There was a small nook behind the last bed, shielded partially by a tall bookshelf. It was the farthest point from the door and the windows.
She chose it.
For Noelle, darkness wasn’t frightening. It was safe. It was a place to think, to breathe, to exist without the world pressing in. She set to work immediately, arranging her few belongings: the scarf her mother had left her, notebooks, pens, a small bag of personal items, and the essentials for living. Each object placed carefully, as though staking claim to a small territory in a world that had always felt too large.
By the time the room began to quiet down, Noelle sat in her nook, her back against the wall, staring at her small, neat space. It was cozy in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. But the quiet also reminded her of absence, the absence of her mother, the meadow, the cottage, the life she had once known.
She wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck. Its scent was faint but enough to anchor her. Noelle allowed herself a moment to miss her mother fully, to remember the cottage, the winter woods, the snowstorm that had stolen everything familiar from her life. The grief rose, sharp and bitter, but she did not let it consume her. She had learned, long ago, how to endure.
The room outside her nook grew dimmer as evening fell, and Noelle watched her roommates laugh quietly over something shared between them. Lia’s voice carried lightly, Samantha’s laughter was soft but lively, Asle’s chuckle rare but genuine.
Noelle’s chest tightened. She wasn’t ready to join them, and she didn’t have to. She could sit in the darkness and still be a part of this room. The presence of others, even at a distance, was enough.
For the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of hope. She wasn’t completely alone.
She opened her notebook and began to write, jotting down observations about her day: movement of her roommates, timing of footsteps in the hall, how the light shifted across the floor as the sun sank. Physics had always been her anchor, and now she applied it to people. Patterns, rhythms, predictable energy. Comforting constants in an uncertain world.
The girls didn’t press her for conversation, but occasionally one would glance toward her nook, offering a smile. Noelle returned small nods, small acknowledgments, learning slowly that connection didn’t have to be loud to be real.
At night, when the hostel settled and the lights dimmed, Noelle leaned back in her nook, scarf wrapped around her shoulders. The shadows of the room were long and comforting, stretching across her corner like protective arms.
She closed her eyes and listened. The voice she had heard in the dark since the meadow village whispered faintly—not words, not commands, but the certainty she had always recognized.
You are not alone.
Noelle’s fingers traced the edges of her notebook. She thought of her mother, of the meadow, of the snowstorm, and of the empty cottage now sold to strangers. She allowed herself to feel the ache, but also the first tiny thread of something else: resilience. The thought was fragile, but it was there.
The hostel was large, crowded, chaotic in ways she didn’t yet understand. But her corner—the dark, quiet nook at the end of the room—was hers. A place to breathe, to plan, to recover. And around her, unknowingly, were others who could become allies, friends, even family in small, careful doses.
Noelle lay back, scarf covering her ears and shoulders. The darkness enveloped her, and she let it. It was no longer just a place to hide. It was a space to grow.
And for the first time since the snowstorm that had taken her mother, she allowed herself a whisper of hope. Not loud, not forceful, but enough to steady her breath.
She wasn’t completely alone.
And maybe, someday, she would find the rest.
- Writer
