There’s a kind of silence that feels earned.
And then there’s the kind that feels like a pause before something shifts.
I don’t know which one this is.
It’s late October again.
Almost exactly three years since Giovanni’s Restaurant.
Three years since my father sold me.
Three years since Marcus walked into my life in a way neither of us anticipated.
Three years since I thought my world was ending.
Now I’m sitting at the kitchen island grading undergrad essays about moral ambiguity in Middlemarch, and Marcus is upstairs reviewing mentorship proposals, and the house feels steady.
Not empty.
Not tense.
Just… steady.
It should feel triumphant.
Instead, it feels like something is about to turn.
The first hint comes in an email from Oxford.
Subject: Permanent Fellowship Track Oppor
