Threads of Destiny

8

The campus café was packed, noisy with end-of-week relief. Appie sat in the center of her usual table, a half-finished croissant in front of her, while her friends crowded close, talking over one another.

“Tickets are impossible to get,” one groaned.

“My cousin queued for two hours and still came up empty,” another added.

Appie grinned, leaning back with satisfaction. “Which is why you all should thank me. Because…” She drew a slim envelope from her bag with a flourish. “I have them.”

Gasps and cheers erupted around her. Someone clapped the table, another reached to snatch the envelope, but Appie whipped it out of reach with a laugh.

“The Crimson Empire. Sunday night. Best row in the house,” she announced. “You’re welcome.”

Plans began spilling out instantly — what snacks to buy, which characters they were most excited for, who would inevitably cry during the battle scenes. Appie basked in the excitement, teasing and laughing, her eyes bright with the joy of it.

Then, as the laughter subsided, her gaze drifted toward the back of the café. Baron was there, half-hidden in the corner, a notebook open beside his coffee. He wasn’t part of the chatter, but she had noticed — he always seemed to listen, even when he didn’t join in.

Appie pushed back her chair, envelope still in hand, and walked over.

“Baron,” she said, smiling down at him. “We’re going to the movie on Sunday. The movie. I’ve got a ticket with your name on it. Come with us.”

Her words hung in the air, warm, insistent, full of the certainty that he couldn’t possibly say no.

---

The weekend before, Baron had been invited two floors down, to the Marets’ flat. Marc Maret, his father’s old friend, had insisted warmly, “You can’t live on sandwiches forever. Come, let Clara feed you properly.”

Baron accepted, and found himself seated at a table rich with the scents of thyme and roasted chicken. Marc asked him about classes and life in the capital, while Clara fussed over serving more potatoes onto his plate. Their warmth reminded him faintly of home, though not uncomfortably so.

It was their daughter, Élise, who made the meal feel less formal. A literature student at a nearby university, she was quick-witted, telling stories of eccentric professors and endless reading lists. She had an easy laugh that drew out even Baron’s quiet smiles.

After lunch, as they lingered at the table, Élise disappeared briefly into her room. When she returned, she held out a slip of paper.

“I got this for you,” she said.

Baron looked down. The Crimson Empire. The film everyone seemed to be talking about.

“I… thank you, but—”

“I know,” Élise interrupted with a small grin. “You don’t like crowds. So I got you a matinee ticket. Quieter, fewer people. Just you.”

Her voice softened. “That way you don’t have to miss it.”

Baron was silent, the paper warm in his hand. He wasn’t used to such thoughtfulness, to someone noticing what he didn’t say out loud.

“Thank you,” he said at last, the words carrying a weight that made Élise’s smile widen just a little.

He folded the ticket carefully into his wallet. More than just a slip of paper — it was kindness, offered with care.

---

Saturday afternoon, the theatre lobby buzzed with voices and the scent of buttered popcorn. Lea and Clémence hurried through the crowd, tickets in hand, laughing at how they nearly missed the bus.

“It’s packed,” Clémence whispered, as they were swept along in the current of people moving toward the screening hall.

Lea nodded, holding tighter to her friend’s arm. “Half the city must be here.”

They found their seats at the far left of the hall, near the middle rows. The lights dimmed, and the opening score thundered to life. Lea sank into her seat, the world narrowing to the screen’s glow, swept into the story.

Across the same hall, on the opposite side, Baron lowered himself into his seat. Élise’s ticket had been for this exact matinee, and he was grateful for her thoughtfulness — a seat alone, not hemmed in, with space to breathe. He sat quietly, hands folded, watching the light spill across the room as the film began.

The theatre was too vast, too dark, for Lea or Clémence to notice him. And he, in turn, never turned his head to look their way.

For two hours, they shared the same space, the same flicker of images, the same collective gasps and laughter. Yet they left afterward as strangers still, their paths brushing close without touching.

---

Monday afternoon, the last lecture of the day had barely ended before Appie was at Baron’s side, her grin impossible to resist.

“Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through his. “No excuses. Coffee time.”

Before he could reply, she was already tugging him toward the café, weaving through the crowds of students spilling out into the crisp autumn air. Baron let himself be pulled along, his usual reluctance dulled by her unstoppable cheer.

At the café, their usual table was crowded with Appie’s friends, the chatter already loud and lively. They burst into conversation the moment he sat down.

“The Crimson Empire was incredible!”

“Best fight scenes ever.”

“I actually cried, I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“Don’t spoil anything! I’m going again this week!”

Baron listened, quiet but attentive, the corner of his mouth lifting at their enthusiasm. He had seen the same film, after all. When someone asked his opinion, he gave only a small nod, a faint smile. “It was… very good.”

The table erupted again, voices tumbling over one another, but Appie caught the subtlety of his expression. She leaned across, resting her hand lightly on his, as though to anchor him in the noise.

“See?” she said brightly, grinning at her friends. “Even Baron agrees. That makes it official.”

Her touch was warm, casual, but it pulled him into the circle of laughter and voices. And though he said little more, his quiet smiles lingered, caught and amplified by the energy around him.