Threads of Destiny

9

By December, the city had changed. The crisp air bit sharper, breath turning to pale clouds as students hurried across the cobbled streets with scarves wrapped high. The café near campus, once packed with chatter and laughter, had grown subdued. Tables were scattered with textbooks instead of plates, hushed murmurs replacing lively conversation.

Appie sat with three of her closest friends at their usual spot, notebooks spread wide. A half-empty teapot cooled in the center, long forgotten. She scribbled notes between bites of a stale croissant, her usual smile muted but not gone.

They had fallen into a rhythm — mornings of lectures, afternoons in the library, evenings spent bent over pages in the dorm common room. Even Appie, who thrived on voices and laughter, now spent long hours with her door shut, music low, books open.

Yet she was never fully alone. Friends drifted in and out, pulling chairs close, quizzing each other, groaning over impossible formulas. Her room had become a second study hall, warm with lamplight, faintly smelling of coffee grounds and ink.

Winter pressed in outside, but inside Appie’s world was filled with paper, pen scratches, whispered encouragements. She still laughed, still teased her friends when they forgot a date or misread a theorem, but it was softer now — the laughter of someone carrying weight alongside everyone else.

Exams were coming, and for the first time, she let the thought settle heavy in her chest.

---

In the dorms, the hallways had grown quieter too. Where once music spilled from open doors and voices called across the corridor, now the air was thick with the low hum of heaters and the rustle of turning pages.

Léa and Clémence settled into a rhythm of their own. One day at Clémence’s room, the next at Léa’s — swapping books, spreading notes across small desks, brewing endless cups of tea.

Sometimes they studied in silence, the scratch of pens and the occasional sigh filling the space. Other times, Clémence would quiz Léa, leaning against the bunk bed frame, while Léa sat cross-legged on the floor, biting her lip as she tried to recall the answer.

When frustration rose, they took short breaks: pacing the narrow corridor, whispering about professors they liked or didn’t, laughing softly at the absurdity of it all. Then they would return to their desks, the seriousness settling back around them like the weight of the winter air outside.

It wasn’t lively, but it was steady. And in the quiet companionship of shared effort, Léa found comfort.

Exams loomed large, but she didn’t feel quite so alone facing them.

---

For Baron, the days leading to exams carried little change. While the campus grew tense with whispered revisions and sleepless nights, his own routine remained steady: lectures, lab work, evenings alone in his flat.

To him, exams were no different from regular classes — just another problem to solve, another program to write. His notes were neat, his memory reliable, his understanding firm. Pressure slid off him like water.

What did change, however, were his visits to the bookstore. At first, he had gone to browse quietly, choosing a novel here, a history there, slipping out without much fuss. But the owner, a man in his fifties with round glasses and a dry sense of humor, had begun to notice the young foreigner who returned week after week.

“Back again?” he asked one evening, as Baron lingered over a display of new releases.

Baron gave a small smile. “Just looking.”

But when he paid, the owner asked about the book. And Baron, hesitant at first, answered. That was how it began: a question at the counter, an opinion exchanged, the faint surprise of discovering someone who cared about stories as much as he did.

Soon, their conversations stretched longer. They spoke of authors and translations, of prose and rhythm, of which books deserved their acclaim and which fell short. Baron’s quiet reserve seemed to soften in those moments, his eyes brightening when he spoke of passages that struck him deeply.

The exams would come and go. But in the quiet warmth of the bookstore, Baron had found something steadier — a place where silence wasn’t a wall, but simply the pause before the next thought.

---

The first morning of exams dawned cold, the sky pale with winter light. Students gathered in clusters outside the great hall, scarves pulled tight, notes clutched in their hands.

Greetings were exchanged, but they were quick, clipped — as much about releasing nerves as true warmth. Friends hugged or patted shoulders, voices hushed with last-minute reminders. Even the most prepared wore taut expressions, their calm fraying at the edges.

Inside, the long rows of desks waited. The air hummed with tension as students took their seats, some tapping pens, others staring fixedly at the paper before them.

Baron, however, sat still. His face unreadable, his hands resting lightly on the desk, he looked as if he were waiting for an ordinary lecture to begin. No frantic page-turning, no whispered formulas under his breath. Just quiet readiness.

It made him stand out. Not for brilliance — not yet — but for the sheer absence of strain. An oddity among forty-five anxious figures, as though he were not part of the same current sweeping them forward.

When the signal was given and the papers were handed out, pens scratched frantically across the room. Baron bent his head and began to write, his movements steady, unhurried.

For him, the exam was not a trial. It was simply another problem to solve.