Audio chapters
The Music of Amelia
The CK: Amelia
There are patterns in the world.
Footsteps on a worn path.
A river bending the same way it always has.
A book on a shelf, waiting to be opened.
Amelia does not know what she is looking for, only that something is shifting, forming, shaping itself around her.
Maybe it was always going to happen this way. Maybe the story began long before she arrived.
Or maybe, for the first time, she is the one holding the pen.
Amelia is also being written as a standard novel. Here you’ll find the chapters as they come out.
Chapter one - Full english breakfast
The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, draping the London park in a golden haze that softened every edge. It was the kind of summer day that could almost convince you the world was as simple and perfect as it seemed.
The air buzzed with life: the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the chatter of families spread out on blankets, and the carefree laughter of children tumbling across the grass.
Even the birds seemed in on the harmony, their songs weaving faint melodies through the hum of activity.
The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, draping the London park in a golden haze that softened every edge. It was the kind of summer day that could almost convince you the world was as simple and perfect as it seemed.
The air buzzed with life: the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the chatter of families spread out on blankets, and the carefree laughter of children tumbling across the grass.
Even the birds seemed in on the harmony, their songs weaving faint melodies through the hum of activity.
Amelia sat perched on the crest of a hill, her legs folded beneath her, her arms loosely wrapped around her knees. The slope beneath her was a patchwork of sun-warmed grass and scattered wildflowers that swayed lazily in the breeze. The hill offered a perfect vantage point to take in the park’s liveliness, yet she felt oddly apart from it all, as though she were watching a play unfold from a distance.
Below her, a little boy raced across the lawn, the string of his kite held tightly in his small hands. The kite dipped and soared, its red-and-white tail a vivid streak against the vast blue sky. “Higher!” he shouted, his voice rising above the rustling leaves. Behind him, his father jogged lightly, his hands outstretched in case the boy’s grip faltered. The boy’s giggles rang out as the kite climbed higher, and Amelia felt a smile tug at her lips.
Not far from them, a family was gathered on a checkered picnic blanket. The mother unwrapped sandwiches from wax paper, handing them out to eager hands. The father leaned back on his elbows, his face tilted toward the sun, while their golden retriever lay sprawled at their feet, its tail thumping softly in the grass. The little girl of the group toddled toward the dog, her laughter unsteady and delighted. Her mother’s arms hovered protectively nearby, ready to catch her if she stumbled.
It was the kind of scene that should have warmed Amelia, should have made her feel a part of something bigger. Instead, it only deepened the quiet dissonance humming in her chest. She plucked a blade of grass from the earth and rolled it between her fingers, feeling its rough edges bite into her skin before letting it drop.
The breeze shifted, tugging gently at her hair, and she turned her face into it, her eyes slipping shut. The warmth of the sun was pleasant on her skin, but it didn’t reach the knot of unease settled deep in her stomach. The laughter of the children, the distant hum of a street performer’s accordion, even the rhythmic thud of a soccer ball being kicked back and forth—it all felt like it was happening somewhere else, a world she could observe but not touch.
She wasn’t part of it. Not really.
Her eyes opened slowly, drifting back to the families scattered below. Her gaze lingered on the little girl now seated beside the golden retriever, her chubby hands tangled in its fur as she giggled at its wagging tail. The mother knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. Amelia’s chest tightened at the sight, an ache blooming quietly beneath her ribs. She couldn’t name the feeling—it wasn’t quite jealousy, but it was something adjacent, something heavier.
Her gaze flicked away, tracing the edges of the park. She let her eyes drift to the line of trees bordering the far side, their branches swaying in the breeze. For a moment, she tried to imagine herself part of the scene—a picnic blanket spread beneath her, a sandwich in her hand, a shared laugh between her and someone she loved. But the image wouldn’t settle. It didn’t belong to her, and no matter how she tried to shape it, it dissolved before she could hold onto it.
Instead, her thoughts slipped backward, unbidden, to her father. His face came to her easily, his dark eyes and the gentle lines of his expression as familiar to her as her own reflection. He had always been steady, a constant presence in her life. She could picture him at the kitchen counter, humming a tune under his breath as he stirred something in a pot. His gestures were always deliberate, unhurried—his way of making space for her in a world that often felt too big.
Her mother’s face was harder to recall. The details came and went, like shadows on water. Amelia could remember her laugh, bright and unrestrained, the way it lit up a room. She could remember the way her arms felt when they wrapped around her, how safe she had seemed back then. But the rest blurred at the edges, slipping further away the harder Amelia tried to hold on. She clenched her fists against the grass, the ache in her chest deepening.
The kite dipped low in the sky, pulling her attention back to the boy and his father. The boy tugged on the string, and the kite climbed higher again, spinning in wide, lazy circles. The father knelt beside his son now, one hand on his shoulder, his other pointing to the sky as he whispered something. Amelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. The simplicity of the moment was almost painful to watch.
She turned her face toward the breeze again, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “Where are they?” she murmured softly, though the words held no expectation of an answer. The question was one she didn’t really want to ask—at least, not here, not now.
Amelia’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sunlight met the edge of the city skyline in a hazy blur. The park seemed infinite from where she sat, its boundaries dissolving into soft greens and golds that shimmered in the distance. But no matter how far her eyes wandered, her thoughts stayed tethered to the knot of memories lodged deep in her chest.
The sense of waiting pressed down on her, vague yet insistent, like a word on the tip of her tongue that refused to be spoken. She shifted slightly, digging her fingers into the earth. Who was she waiting for? Or was it a what? The thought nagged at her, but the answer remained just out of reach.
She let her gaze fall to the grass, watching a tiny beetle make its slow, determined journey over the uneven terrain. It crawled over a blade of grass, its movements unhurried but purposeful, as though it knew exactly where it was going. Amelia envied the certainty of its path. The thought made her laugh quietly, a small sound that didn’t quite belong in the warmth of the afternoon.
Her laugh faded as a shadow flickered across her hand. She froze, her breath catching as her eyes darted upward. At first, all she saw was the sky—a vast expanse of blue interrupted only by a single bird coasting on the breeze. It wheeled lazily, its wings cutting smooth arcs against the light. But the shadow hadn’t been from the bird; it had been too sudden, too fleeting.
She looked around, but nothing seemed amiss. The children were still playing, the families still laughing, the sun still shining. The kite spun higher in the sky, its tail a blur of color against the backdrop of endless blue. And yet, something had shifted, though she couldn’t put her finger on what.
Amelia rubbed her arms, the warmth of the day suddenly feeling thinner, less certain. Her eyes caught on a trail at the base of the hill, half-hidden by a cluster of wildflowers and brambles. It was narrow, almost invisible unless you were looking for it, its edges blending seamlessly into the grass around it. She tilted her head, frowning. Had it always been there?
The trail seemed to hum faintly in the sunlight, its entrance framed by a delicate arch of blooms. There was something about it that tugged at her, a pull both gentle and insistent. Her fingers clenched the grass as though to anchor herself, but her body leaned forward instinctively, drawn to the path’s curve as it disappeared into the trees.
The world around her softened as her focus narrowed, the laughter of the children and the chatter of families fading to a dull hum. The trail shimmered faintly, its surface dappled with patches of light and shadow. It felt alive somehow, as though it were breathing, waiting.
A breeze stirred the wildflowers at the trail’s edges, their petals swaying in an unnatural rhythm. It wasn’t the carefree dance of flowers in the wind; it was something more deliberate, as though they were moving to a melody only they could hear. The air seemed to change too, cooler now, with the faintest scent of salt carried on the breeze. Amelia blinked, her heart quickening. Salt? That didn’t make sense. The ocean was miles away.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as her gaze locked on the trail. She thought, for a moment, that she saw someone standing at its entrance—a figure blurred by sunlight, their outline indistinct but undeniably human. They didn’t move, didn’t call out to her. They just stood there, waiting.
Amelia’s breath caught. The pull she’d felt earlier grew stronger, like an invisible thread tugging at her chest, urging her forward. She half-rose, her legs trembling beneath her, but the figure vanished before she could take a step. The space where they had stood was empty now, the sunlight filtering through the wildflowers as though nothing had been there at all.
“Come and see,” a voice whispered, soft as the breeze. She turned sharply, but there was no one around her. The families below were still absorbed in their picnics, the children oblivious to the shadow that had passed over her world.
She hesitated, glancing back at the trail. The pull was still there, but now it was tinged with something sharper—a hint of unease that curled low in her stomach. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she took a step back, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders feeling like a lifeline she wasn’t ready to let go of.
The shadow flickered again, this time at the edge of her vision. She spun around, but it was gone before she could fully see it. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, the edges of the park blurring as though it were a reflection rippling in water. She blinked rapidly, her hands digging into the grass for stability. When her vision cleared, the park was as it had been—golden and vibrant, the laughter and life around her as steady as ever.
But the trail was still there, humming with quiet insistence.
Her heart pounded as she forced herself to sit back down, her legs folding beneath her once more. She clenched her hands in her lap, trying to ignore the lingering pull of the trail. It wasn’t real, she told herself. Just a trick of the light. Just a dream. But as the breeze swept past her, carrying the faintest echo of the voice again, she wasn’t so sure.
Amelia stirred as a faint sliver of sunlight crept across her face, slipping through the gap in her curtains. The warmth of the golden dream still clung to her, though the vivid colors and soft laughter were already fading. She blinked against the light, her room slowly coming into focus—familiar but with an edge of disarray that hinted at change. The bookshelves that once overflowed with novels and knickknacks now stood half-empty, their contents carefully packed into boxes stacked haphazardly along one wall.
Her gaze lingered on a box labeled “Amelia’s Stuff – Fragile,” the words scrawled in her father’s neat, deliberate handwriting. Beside it, her university acceptance letter lay propped against her desk lamp, the emblem of Plymouth University catching the sunlight. It still felt surreal, the thought of leaving this room, this house, this life.
Above her desk, a collage of photos pinned to a corkboard caught her eye. There were snapshots of her and Ella laughing by the Thames, a grainy picture of her father in the kitchen mid-laugh, and a small, slightly faded photo of her mother. Amelia reached out to straighten it, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame. For a moment, the dream’s warmth was replaced by a familiar ache, bittersweet and enduring.
The smell of frying bacon drifted up the stairs, cutting through her thoughts. She rolled over, groaning softly as the aroma lured her out of bed. Her feet hit the floor, the wooden boards cool beneath her as she shuffled toward the window. Pulling the curtains open, she was greeted by the soft glow of a London morning. The rooftops of their quiet street gleamed faintly with dew, and the distant hum of life stirred just beyond the glass.
Amelia stretched, shaking off the remnants of sleep and the lingering pull of the dream. Today, like every other morning, started with breakfast—and her father’s attempt to pretend he wasn’t dreading her leaving.
The kitchen was already alive with the sounds of breakfast when Amelia reached the bottom of the stairs. The familiar clatter of pans and the sizzle of bacon greeted her, along with the faint hum of a jazz tune from the small radio on the counter. Her father stood at the stove, his back to her, dressed in his usual weekend uniform of worn jeans and a faded sweater that had probably been blue at some point in its long life.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he called over his shoulder without turning around. “Thought I’d have to send a search party to drag you out of bed.”
“Very funny,” Amelia replied, her voice dry but affectionate as she slid into a chair at the small kitchen table. “You’d miss me if I slept forever. Who else would put up with your awful dad jokes?”
He turned then, holding a spatula like a scepter and grinning. “Awful? I’ll have you know these jokes are award-winning. They’re just… underappreciated.”
Amelia smirked, leaning her elbows on the table. The kitchen felt smaller than usual, the clutter of pots and jars crowding the countertops more noticeable. But it was home, every detail ingrained in her—the chipped corner of the table, the mismatched mugs hanging from hooks, the faint burn mark on the stove from when her dad had tried flambéing something after watching a cooking show.
“Toast?” he asked, already reaching for the bread.
“Sure,” she said, watching as he moved about the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who’d been doing this for years. He was steady in a way that felt unshakable, his presence a constant thread through her life. Yet today, there was something in the way his shoulders were set, a stiffness that betrayed the thoughts she knew he wasn’t saying.
As he set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her, Amelia gave him a small smile. “Thanks, chef.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, sitting across from her with his own plate. “Figured I’d start your day off right. Big changes ahead and all.”
There it was—the unspoken thing that had hovered between them for weeks. Amelia glanced at him, his face as familiar as her own, but his eyes were focused on his plate. He stabbed a piece of bacon with his fork, chewing slowly before meeting her gaze.
“Nervous?” he asked simply.
She hesitated, then shrugged. “A little. I mean, it’s exciting, but… yeah. New place, new people. It’s a lot.”
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got that James grit. And if it doesn’t work out, there’s always a spot here for you. No pressure, though.”
Amelia rolled her eyes, though the warmth in his tone eased some of her nerves. “Thanks, Dad. That’s super reassuring.”
They ate in silence for a moment, the clink of cutlery filling the space. Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer this time. “Your mum would be so proud of you, you know.”
Amelia froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. He rarely mentioned her mother, not because he didn’t want to, but because it always seemed to leave the air heavier than it was before. She forced a smile, nodding. “I hope so.”
He smiled too, a quiet, wistful expression that faded as quickly as it came. “Just don’t forget to eat properly when you’re on your own. And call. You know, once in a while. For your old man’s sake.”
“Deal,” she said, her voice light but sincere. She pushed her plate aside, resting her chin in her hand. “What about you? What are you going to do without me here to keep you in check?”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Might take up gardening again. Or join a jazz band. Always wanted to learn the saxophone.”
Amelia snorted. “Right. You can barely play the kazoo.”
“Harsh but fair,” he admitted with a grin. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
His words were casual, but there was a weight to them that made her chest tighten. The idea of leaving him alone in this house, with its quiet corners and too much space, gnawed at her. She wanted to believe he would be fine, but she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—him or herself.
He stood then, gathering the plates and moving to the sink. “You’ll call, though? Just to let me know you’re alive.”
“Of course,” she said, watching him as he rinsed the dishes. The sunlight streaming through the window caught the gray in his hair, making him look older than she wanted to admit.
“Good,” he said, turning back to her with a smile. “Now, go on. Get yourself ready for the day. Big things ahead.”
Amelia nodded, standing and heading toward the stairs. As she reached the doorway, she glanced back, catching him leaning against the counter, his expression distant as he looked out the window. She hesitated, the urge to say something—anything—rising in her chest. But she let it pass, turning away and climbing the stairs.
The hum of breakfast chatter and the clink of dishes still lingered in Amelia’s ears as she sat cross-legged on her bed, the old photo album spread open in front of her. The corners of the pages were frayed, the plastic sleeves slightly clouded with age, but the pictures within remained sharp and vivid, like tiny portals to the past.
Her fingers brushed over a photo of her mother holding her as a toddler, both of them laughing in a way that seemed almost musical, even in memory. Her mother’s smile was radiant, the kind that lit up every corner of a room. Amelia felt her chest tighten as she traced the edge of the picture, a quiet longing stirring within her. How long had it been since she’d heard that laugh? Felt that warmth?
She turned the page, her eyes landing on a picture of her and Ella as children, their faces sticky with what must have been an epic ice cream meltdown. The two of them were perched on the edge of a fountain, Ella’s arm slung casually around Amelia’s shoulders. The memory brought a small smile to her lips, a faint laugh escaping as she recalled how they’d dared each other to climb into the fountain before being sternly told off by a park attendant.
But as she flipped through the album, her fingers paused on an image she hadn’t expected to find. It was the park from her dream—the very same hill, bathed in golden light, with her younger self sitting cross-legged in the grass. Her hair was windswept, her face turned toward the sky with a look of wonder that seemed to echo the feeling she’d woken with that morning. The dream wasn’t just a figment of her imagination; it was a memory, one she hadn’t consciously revisited in years.
Amelia leaned back against her pillows, the album resting on her lap as her thoughts swirled. The photo filled her with a strange duality—warmth for the beauty of that moment and melancholy for the distance that had grown since then. She wondered if her mother had taken the picture, if she’d been the one behind the lens capturing that fleeting slice of childhood.
The past felt closer than usual today, as though the dream had pulled loose threads of memory she couldn’t quite weave together. She glanced at the corkboard above her desk, where the same photo of her mother from breakfast was pinned. In it, her mother’s eyes sparkled with the energy Amelia so often wished she could bottle and keep with her.
A soft knock at the door broke her reverie.
“Everything alright in there?” her father’s voice came, muffled but familiar.
“Yeah, I’m good,” she called back, trying to keep her voice steady. She wasn’t lying exactly—she was good, in a way. Just… complicated. And wasn’t that what leaving home was all about? Untangling yourself from the past to figure out who you were without it?
The thought settled heavily in her chest as she closed the photo album and set it aside. Her gaze fell to a small wooden box on her bookshelf, tucked between two thick volumes of novels. It wasn’t something she often reached for, but today felt like the right time.
Amelia pulled the box into her lap, its surface smooth from years of handling. The latch gave a satisfying click as she opened it, revealing a jumble of small, significant treasures that made up the mosaic of her life.
The first thing she pulled out was a bracelet, its beads worn but still colorful. Ella had made it for her during a rainy summer afternoon, the two of them sitting cross-legged on the floor of Ella’s living room while the rain lashed against the windows. She slipped it onto her wrist, the beads jangling softly as she turned it over in her hand.
Next, she found a small seashell, its surface smooth and pale pink. It brought her back to a family trip to Brighton when she was nine, running barefoot across the sand with her dad while her mum laughed from a nearby beach towel. She could still remember the way the waves had roared, the salt clinging to her skin as she’d hunted for shells along the shore.
At the bottom of the box was something she hadn’t touched in years—a folded piece of paper, yellowed at the edges. She hesitated before unfolding it, the faint smell of old stationery rising as she smoothed it out. It was a letter, written in her mother’s flowing handwriting. The words were simple, a short note tucked into her lunchbox on the first day of school:
"Be brave, my star. You shine brighter than you know."
The lump in her throat grew as she read it, her fingers brushing the edges of the paper. She carefully folded it back up and returned it to the box, her chest tightening with a mix of sorrow and gratitude.
The box sat open beside her as she reached for her journal, its leather cover smooth beneath her fingertips. Writing had always been her way of sorting through the noise in her head, of finding patterns in the chaos. Today, the words came slowly, as though each thought needed to be coaxed into existence.
“I had a dream about the park this morning. It felt real, like I could touch it. I think Mum was there, somehow, even though I couldn’t see her. It’s funny how memories work—how they sneak up on you when you’re not paying attention.”
She paused, tapping the pen against her chin before continuing.
“I’m nervous about Plymouth. Excited, too, but mostly nervous. What if I’m not ready? What if everything changes, and I’m not the person I thought I was? Dad keeps saying I’ll be fine, but I think he’s just as worried as I am.”
She stopped again, the pen hovering over the page. The words that came next felt almost foreign, like they belonged to someone braver than she was.
“I feel like something’s waiting for me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there, somewhere. Maybe this is how it starts—the next part of my story.”
She set the pen down, closing the journal with a soft sigh. Her room felt quieter now, the air heavy with the weight of everything she’d remembered. But there was also a spark of something else, faint but persistent: hope.
Amelia stood, brushing off her jeans and placing the journal back on her desk. Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with it, all the uncertainties she’d been wrestling with. For now, though, she let herself linger in the stillness, her thoughts drifting back to the park and the feeling of sunlight on her skin.
Chapter two - Into the Plym
The late afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, casting warm streaks of amber across the quiet street as Amelia stepped out of her house.
She paused on the front step, the door clicking shut behind her, and let the stillness settle over her.
The neighborhood was the same as it had always been—neatly trimmed hedges, rows of brick houses, the faint hum of distant traffic.
It felt timeless, like it would always be here, unchanged, waiting for her.
Her bag hung over her shoulder, a book sticking out awkwardly from the top where she’d shoved it in haste. As she started walking, her steps fell into an easy rhythm, the soles of her sneakers skimming the familiar cracks in the pavement. The scent of freshly mowed grass wafted from a nearby garden, mingling with the faint tang of exhaust from a passing car.
The café wasn’t far—just a ten-minute walk past the park and down the hill to the corner where it nestled between a bakery and a flower shop. Amelia found herself slowing as she passed the park, her gaze drifting toward the hill where she’d dreamed of sitting only that morning. It looked different in the afternoon light, smaller somehow, yet it tugged at her thoughts. She wondered if she should stop, sit on the bench near the swings, and let her mind wander. But the prospect of seeing Ella pulled her forward, a welcome distraction from the weight of her own thoughts.
The café door jingled as she pushed it open, the comforting aroma of coffee and pastries enveloping her like a hug. Her eyes scanned the room, settling on a familiar figure at a table near the window. Ella waved, her smile wide and effortless, and Amelia felt a small flutter of relief.
“Finally! I thought you’d decided to ditch me for good,” Ella called, her tone teasing but light. Amelia grinned, shrugging as she slid into the seat opposite her. “I thought about it. But then I realized you’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t,” Ella said, leaning back in her chair with a mock-stern look. Her auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. She was everything Amelia wasn’t—bold, outgoing, magnetic. Yet, somehow, it worked between them, like two halves of a whole that made sense only when they were together.
They ordered quickly—iced lattes and a shared plate of scones. Ella’s voice filled the space between them as naturally as breathing, her words tumbling over each other in a lively stream of updates, anecdotes, and plans.
“Anyway, you’re going to visit all the time, right?” Ella said, breaking a scone in half and slathering it with jam.
“I mean, it’s only Plymouth. What’s that, a few hours by train? You’ll be back here every other weekend, and we’ll keep our Sunday café tradition alive. Non-negotiable.” Amelia hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
The thought of returning often was comforting, but it didn’t feel real.
She was leaving, really leaving, and the weight of that truth pressed down on her.
“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice softer than she intended. “Of course.”
Ella paused mid-bite, her gaze sharp as she studied Amelia.
“You don’t sound very convincing.”
Amelia let out a soft laugh, more to fill the silence than anything.
“I guess it’s just… a lot, you know? Leaving everything behind. I’m excited, but it feels weird.”
Ella set her scone down, leaning forward with an expression that was suddenly serious.
“Hey, you’re not leaving everything behind. You’ve got me, for one. And your dad. And, I mean, I’ll come visit you if you’re too busy to come back. Plymouth’s by the sea, right? I could use a seaside getaway.”
The earnestness in her voice made Amelia’s chest ache in the best way. Ella always had a way of making things seem simpler, lighter, like whatever storm Amelia was bracing for was just a passing drizzle.
“Thanks,” Amelia said, her voice steadying. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Ella grinned, the moment of seriousness passing like a ripple.
“You better. And hey, maybe Plymouth’s full of exciting people and, like, the next big thing. You’ll probably meet some brooding artist who falls madly in love with you and writes a novel about it.”
Amelia snorted. “Highly unlikely. Besides, I think I’ve had enough drama for a lifetime.”
“Fair point,” Ella said, lifting her cup in a mock toast. “To no drama and seaside adventures.”
They clinked their cups together, the sound light and clear, and for a moment, the world felt manageable. Amelia leaned back in her chair, watching as Ella swiped her finger through the leftover jam on her plate.
“You’ve always been like this, you know,” Amelia said, her voice contemplative.
“Like what?” Ella asked, licking the jam off her finger.
“Keeping me sane. Making things feel less... heavy.”
Ella’s expression softened, her usual brightness dimmed by a flicker of something more earnest. “That’s what friends are for, right? You’d do the same for me.”
Amelia nodded, her thoughts drifting back to all the times Ella had been there—when her mother had passed, when the bullies at school had gotten too loud, when life had felt like too much. Ella had always been the constant, the anchor that kept her grounded.
“I’m going to miss this,” Amelia said quietly.
Ella reached across the table, her hand warm as it settled over Amelia’s. “It’s not going anywhere. You and me—we’re not some temporary thing, okay? Plymouth’s just a new chapter, not a new book.”
Amelia smiled, the words sinking in and settling something restless inside her. Ella always had a way of finding the right thing to say, of turning chaos into something that felt almost like hope.
The chatter in the café ebbed and flowed around them, a soft symphony of clinking cups, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter. Amelia stirred the remnants of her latte absentmindedly, her thoughts flitting between the present and the past as Ella launched into a story.
“Do you remember that time in primary school when we decided we were going to build the ultimate treehouse?” Ella asked, her eyes alight with mischief.
Amelia snorted. “You mean the one that was more of a death trap than a treehouse? How could I forget? You nearly broke your arm trying to hang the ladder.”
“It was a rope, thank you very much,” Ella corrected, waving a finger. “And it wasn’t my fault the tree decided to rebel.”
“You tied the rope to a branch barely thicker than your wrist,” Amelia pointed out, her grin widening. “Of course, it snapped.”
Ella leaned back, laughing, the sound warm and full of life. “Okay, so maybe my engineering skills weren’t top-notch. But admit it—we had fun. I mean, until Mrs. Avery found us and dragged us back home like escaped convicts.”
Amelia chuckled, the memory washing over her like sunlight through a window. She could still picture it: the two of them covered in mud, twigs in their hair, their grand plans reduced to a pile of rope and shattered dreams. It was one of those moments that had felt catastrophic at the time but now glowed with the golden hue of nostalgia.
“You’ve always been the reckless one,” Amelia said, her voice soft. “And somehow, I always end up going along with your schemes.”
Ella grinned. “That’s because you secretly love it. Admit it—I bring a little chaos to your life.”
As Ella launched into another tale, this one about a prank involving water balloons and a particularly unlucky teacher, Amelia’s gaze drifted out the window. The familiar streets outside felt almost surreal, as if they were part of a world she was already starting to leave behind.
Ella’s laughter bubbled up again, pulling her attention back to the table. Amelia smiled, but there was an ache beneath it, a bittersweet tug she couldn’t quite shake. She realized how much she would miss this—these moments of effortless connection, the way Ella could make her forget everything else with just a look or a well-timed joke.
Her thoughts turned to the uncertainties of university life. Would she find friends like Ella in Plymouth? Would she even be the same person, once she was away from everything familiar? The questions loomed, heavy and unanswerable, and for a moment, the excitement she’d been trying to focus on felt distant, overshadowed by doubt.
“Hey.”
Ella’s voice broke through her thoughts, her tone soft but insistent. “
You okay? You’ve gone all quiet on me.”
Amelia blinked, her fingers tightening around her mug. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking.”
“About Plymouth?” Ella guessed, her expression sharpening with the kind of intuition only years of friendship could build.
Amelia nodded, hesitating. “I guess I’m just nervous. Excited too, but mostly nervous. It feels like… everything’s going to change.”
Ella leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she studied Amelia. “Of course it’s going to change. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? New places, new people, new adventures. It’s scary, sure, but it’s also, like, the best kind of scary.”
Amelia gave her a weak smile. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one leaving everything behind.”
“Hey, you’re not leaving it behind,” Ella said, her voice firm.
“You’re just… adding to it. Expanding your world. And I’ll still be here, waiting to hear all about it. Every drama, every triumph, every weird professor. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
The sincerity in her voice made Amelia’s chest tighten. She looked down at her mug, her fingers tracing the rim.
“What if I don’t fit in? What if I get there and it’s just… too much?”
Ella reached across the table, her hand warm as it covered Amelia’s.
“Then you call me, and I’ll remind you who you are. You’ve got this, Amelia. You’re stronger than you think.”
Amelia’s lips quirked into a small, grateful smile.
“Thanks, Ella. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably lead a much more boring life,” Ella said, her grin returning.
“But seriously, you’re going to be amazing. And when you’re a world-famous psychologist or whatever, I’m totally crashing your fancy book launches.”
Amelia laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “Deal.”
As they finished their drinks, the heaviness that had settled over her earlier began to lift, replaced by a flicker of something lighter—hope, maybe, or the first glimmers of excitement. Whatever it was, it felt like the beginning of something new.
Ella leaned back in her chair, a sly smile creeping across her face as she reached into her bag. “Hold on, I’ve got something for you.”
Amelia tilted her head, curious. “What are you up to now?”
With a dramatic flourish, Ella pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in tissue paper and slid it across the table.
“Just a little something for luck. Open it.”
Amelia hesitated, her fingers brushing the delicate paper. “Ella, you didn’t have to—”
“I know I didn’t have to,” Ella interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “But I wanted to. Now stop being weird about it and open it already.”
Amelia carefully peeled back the tissue to reveal a simple silver bracelet, a small charm dangling from its chain—a tiny, intricately carved anchor. Her breath caught for a moment as she held it up, the charm catching the light.
“An anchor,” Amelia murmured, turning it over in her fingers.
“Yeah,” Ella said, her tone softer now. “Because, you know, no matter where you go, you’ve always got something—or someone—to keep you steady.”
The words hit Amelia harder than she expected, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She looked up, her eyes searching Ella’s face, but her friend was already brushing it off with a wave of her hand.
“Don’t get all emotional on me now,” Ella teased. “I just didn’t want you forgetting about me when you’re off being brilliant in Plymouth.” Amelia laughed, a little shakily, and slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. “As if I ever could.”
Their conversation drifted easily into the future, like sunlight spilling through the window.
“So, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get to Plymouth?” Ella asked, leaning forward with her chin in her hand.
Amelia shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Probably unpack, find the campus, maybe panic quietly in my room for a bit.”
Ella snorted. “That sounds about right. But seriously, what are you looking forward to the most?”
Amelia hesitated, letting the question settle. “I guess… I’m excited to really dive into psychology, you know? It’s not just reading about it anymore—it’s real classes, real people. I want to understand how people work, why we do the things we do.”
“Always the deep thinker,” Ella said, her grin softening into something more reflective. “I bet you’re going to meet some fascinating people too. Just don’t let them be more interesting than me, okay?”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Impossible. But yeah, I am curious. It’s kind of terrifying, but also… exciting? Like, there’s this whole new world waiting, and I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
“That’s the best part,” Ella said, her voice light but earnest. “You don’t need to know everything. Just take it as it comes. And if it gets too crazy, call me, and I’ll come down and cause some chaos to balance things out.”
Amelia smiled, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosening slightly. “You’d do that for me?”
“Please, I’d do it for the drama alone,” Ella teased, but the warmth in her eyes betrayed her sincerity.
As the late afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, the café began to empty, the hum of conversation fading to a quiet murmur. Ella glanced at her phone and sighed. “Alright, I should probably let you go. Can’t hog you all day, even if I want to.”
Amelia didn’t want the moment to end, but she nodded, gathering her bag. They stepped outside together, the cool air brushing against their skin as they lingered by the door.
Ella turned to her with a grin. “Alright, one last hug before you go becoming a big-shot university student.”
Amelia laughed and stepped into the embrace, her arms tightening around Ella as if she could somehow hold onto the moment forever. “Thanks for everything,” she murmured.
“Always,” Ella said, her voice steady.
As they pulled apart, Ella pointed a finger at her.
“Don’t forget—regular texts, at least one phone call a week, and you better send me pictures of all the weirdos you meet.”
“I promise,” Amelia said, smiling.
With a quick wave, Ella turned and walked down the street, her ponytail swinging behind her. Amelia watched her go until she disappeared around the corner, the anchor charm on her wrist feeling heavier than it should.
She turned toward home, her steps slower now, and let herself feel the mix of sadness and gratitude that swirled inside her. Change was coming—big, scary, wonderful change—and for the first time, she felt ready to face it.
Chapter 3 - Memories and Keepsakes
The front door clicked shut behind her, and with it, the outside world faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the house. The scent of old books, faint traces of her father’s aftershave, and the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun filled the space.
The radio played from the kitchen—one of those soft, easy-listening stations her father always tuned into, as if the quiet unsettled him more than she had ever realized.
Amelia stood at the foot of the stairs, her fingers absentmindedly trailing the curve of the banister. There was something about coming home that always made her feel smaller, like she was stepping into the shadow of her younger self. The creak of the floorboards, the familiar hum of the heating pipes, the way the light slanted through the stained-glass panel on the front door—it was the same house she had grown up in, yet somehow it already felt distant.
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step measured, each breath drawn in as if to hold something still within her. At the top, she hesitated before pushing open the door to her bedroom.
It was caught between two worlds—one foot in the past, the other in a future she hadn’t yet stepped into. The walls still carried faint traces of old posters she had torn down, and the bookshelves, once filled to bursting, now had noticeable gaps where she had pulled volumes for the move. The bed was half-covered in open suitcases, clothes folded but not yet placed with any real conviction. A box labeled To Take sat near the foot of the bed, next to another that simply read Maybe.
Her desk, usually cluttered with notebooks and half-finished sketches, was now a landscape of transition—her university acceptance letter propped against a stack of books, a postcard from Ella wedged between the pages of a journal, an empty cup of tea long gone cold.
She lowered herself to the floor, cross-legged, and pulled the Maybe box closer.
Packing should have been easy—just a matter of sorting things into categories, deciding what was necessary, what was sentimental, and what was neither. But it never really was just about things, was it?
She hesitated before lifting the lid, fingers brushing against the cardboard edge.
The first thing she pulled out was an old, dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden. The spine was cracked from years of rereading, the pages worn soft. She flipped through them absentmindedly, pausing at a passage she had underlined long ago:
"If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden."
Her mother had read this book to her when she was little.
"This is an important one, Amelia. Some books aren’t just stories. They’re maps."
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory settle before setting the book aside.
The next object she pulled from the box was smaller—a delicate silver bracelet, the chain fine but sturdy, a tiny compass charm hanging from the clasp.
Her mother’s.
She swallowed, turning it over in her palm.
"So you’ll always know where home is."
That’s what her mother had said when she had given it to her. Amelia had been too young to really understand what it meant at the time, too young to recognize the weight behind her mother’s words. Now, sitting in the middle of her room, surrounded by half-packed boxes and the ghosts of childhood, she thought she finally did.
She hesitated before slipping it onto her wrist, the cool metal pressing against her skin in a way that made her chest tighten.
Her fingers drifted back into the box, pulling out another object—a small Polaroid photo, edges curled and faded with time.
It was a picture of her, her mother, and her father. Taken on the cliffs in Cornwall.
She must have been five or six. Her mother was laughing, hair windswept, her arm wrapped around Amelia’s small shoulders. Her father stood beside them, his hand resting lightly on Amelia’s back. A rare smile stretched across his usually serious face.
She traced the edges of the photo with her thumb.
It was strange, how a single frozen moment could carry the weight of an entire life.
She could almost hear the distant crash of waves below, the cry of seabirds overhead. She could feel the rough wool of her father’s coat as she pressed against his side, the way her mother’s voice had lifted over the wind, telling her something—what was it?
She tried to remember, but the words had blurred with time, slipping away like seafoam retreating from the shore.
She let out a slow breath and set the photo aside carefully, pressing her palm against her forehead for a moment before reaching for the next thing.
There was a small, slightly worn keepsake box tucked into the corner of the larger box. She hadn’t opened it in years.
Lifting the lid, she found the familiar collection inside—things she had held onto, little fragments of the past she hadn’t been ready to let go of.
A seashell, smoothed by years of tumbling in the tide.
A folded note from Ella, written in scrawling handwriting, full of inside jokes and encouragement.
A ticket stub from a concert they had gone to together, the ink smudged from being handled too many times.
Each item told a story, some clearer than others.
The seashell took her back to Cornwall, to a family trip long ago. Her mother had held it up to her ear and told her to listen. "The ocean is always speaking, Amelia. Even when you can’t hear it."
The note from Ella made her smile, her best friend’s words looping across the page in haphazard curls.
"You are an absolute disaster, but I love you anyway. And no matter how far away you go, you better remember that. Also, if you don’t text me back within 24 hours, I will assume you have died and send someone to recover the body."
The ticket stub was from a concert the summer before last. They had screamed the lyrics, danced like idiots, and laughed until their sides ached.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Sitting there, surrounded by pieces of her past, she felt the weight of everything pressing in at once. The comfort of familiarity, the ache of nostalgia, the quiet whisper of change.
How much of this would still matter in a year?
Would she still reach for these memories, or would they fade, replaced by new ones?
She closed the keepsake box carefully, fingers lingering for a moment on the lid before setting it aside.
Packing was supposed to be easy.
But it never really was.
There was still so much left to do.
And so much harder to leave behind.
The keepsake box sat in front of her, small and unassuming, yet filled with the weight of years. She ran her fingers over the worn edges before opening it fully, revealing the collection of seemingly ordinary objects inside.
She picked up the folded note first, smoothing out the creases with care.
"For when you forget how amazing you are," Ella had scrawled across the top in her messy handwriting.
Amelia smiled despite herself.
Inside, the note was filled with a chaotic mix of heartfelt encouragement and absolute nonsense. "Your brain is too full of books, and that’s why you trip over air," Ella had written at one point. "But also, you have more guts than you think, and you’re going to be okay."
Amelia traced the words with her thumb. Ella had always been like this—unshakably certain in the way she believed in people. It had always been a little overwhelming, but now, sitting alone in her room with a suitcase half-packed, she found herself clinging to it.
She folded the note carefully and set it aside before reaching for the seashell.
Holding it in her palm, she pressed it lightly against her ear, even though she knew the trick was just a trick—the way the hollow shell amplified the air, mimicking the sound of waves.
Still, she listened.
The memory came easily this time: a bright afternoon, the scent of salt and sand, her mother kneeling beside her on a rocky beach in Cornwall.
"The ocean is always speaking," her mother had said, her voice warm, the kind of warmth that lingers long after the moment has passed. "Even when you can’t hear it."
Amelia closed her eyes.
She had been so small then, standing with her feet half-buried in damp sand, clinging to the shell like it was something sacred. Her mother had pressed it into her hands and whispered, "Keep this. One day, it’ll remind you to listen."
The memory was so vivid it felt like she could reach out and touch it.
But it wasn’t real anymore.
Amelia lowered the shell, running her fingers over its ridged surface before tucking it back into the box.
The next thing she pulled out was a ticket stub, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times.
She laughed under her breath.
It was from the concert she and Ella had gone to last summer. The night had been humid and electric, the kind of night that belonged to youth and recklessness.
"We have to go to the front," Ella had insisted, dragging her through the crowd.
"You’re insane," Amelia had shouted over the music, but she hadn’t fought it.
They had screamed the lyrics, danced like idiots, and left the venue hoarse and exhilarated, their clothes sticking to their skin from the heat of too many bodies in one place.
It had been one of those rare moments where Amelia had let herself go completely—no overthinking, no hesitation, just feeling.
She turned the ticket over in her hands.
Would university have nights like that? Would she find people who made her laugh until she couldn’t breathe, people who felt like home in the way Ella did?
The thought left an ache in her chest, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it for long.
She placed the ticket back in the box, letting out a slow breath before moving to the last item.
A photograph.
She didn’t need to turn it over to know what it was.
Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she finally picked it up.
The picture had been taken on one of their family trips to Cornwall—before everything had changed. She was small, maybe five or six, grinning wildly, her arms stretched toward the sky as if she could catch the wind.
Her mother was beside her, laughing, hair wild from the sea breeze. Her father stood slightly to the side, his smile smaller, but real. A rare, unguarded moment.
She traced the edge of the photo, her chest tightening.
The thing about pictures was that they never changed. No matter how much time passed, no matter how many years stretched between then and now, the moment inside them remained frozen—untouched.
It was the people who changed.
She had changed.
Amelia swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.
Slowly, carefully, she placed the photo back in the box.
She sat there for a while, cross-legged on the floor, the keepsake box resting in her lap.
The past was heavy, and she had carried it with her for so long that she wasn’t sure who she was without it.
But she wasn’t leaving it behind.
She was taking it with her.
It would live in the pages of her journal, in the items tucked between books, in the anchor charm on her wrist.
She wasn’t leaving home. She was carrying it forward.
The thought settled something inside her.
She closed the box with careful hands, pressing her palm lightly to the lid before setting it on the nightstand.
There.
A small piece of home, waiting for her when she needed it.
Amelia sat with her back against her bed frame, her legs stretched out in front of her, staring at the now-closed keepsake box. The weight of the past few hours settled over her, not in a suffocating way, but like a thick fog rolling in over the Thames—present, unmoving, waiting.
The afternoon light had shifted, spilling gold over her bed and catching on the half-packed suitcase in the corner. She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. She had spent so much time looking backward that the reality of tomorrow had crept up on her unnoticed.
With a slow breath, she pushed herself to her feet and stretched, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders. The suitcase loomed like an unfinished sentence, so she stepped toward it, determined to finish packing before her thoughts could swallow her whole again.
She crouched beside the open case, running her fingers over the fabric of a sweater folded on top.
Some things were easy to pack—jeans, T-shirts, a pair of battered trainers that had seen better days. Others felt heavier, as if they carried the weight of history with them.
Her hands hovered over her bookshelf before she carefully slid out a dog-eared copy of an old fairytale collection.
Her mother had read these to her when she was small. She still remembered the way her voice would shift for different characters, the way she would pause before dramatic moments, waiting for Amelia’s reaction before continuing.
Even when she had grown older, too old to be read bedtime stories, she had never quite let go of the book.
She turned it over in her hands, tracing the faded silver lettering on the spine.
Her father would probably think she was ridiculous for bringing it. But some things weren’t meant to be left behind.
She placed it carefully in the suitcase.
Next was her journal, the leather cover worn soft from years of use.
It had started as a place for notes, for to-do lists, for scribbled reminders. But over time, it had become something else—a record of moments, of thoughts she couldn’t say out loud, of emotions too tangled to untangle.
She flicked through the pages absentmindedly, catching glimpses of old entries.
"I hate that I can’t remember her voice clearly anymore. It fades, like fog in the morning, and I keep trying to hold onto it, but it slips through my fingers."
She closed the journal quickly, pressing it to her chest for a moment before tucking it into the side pocket of her suitcase.
She reached for her photo of her family, still resting on the nightstand where she had left it.
She hesitated.
Some part of her wanted to pack it away, keep it safe between the pages of a book, away from the messiness of the present. But another part of her wanted to keep it close.
Without overthinking it, she picked it up and slid it into the front pocket of her journal. A place where she could reach for it when she needed to. The last thing she packed was the anchor charm bracelet.
She had taken it off earlier when she was sorting through her keepsakes, setting it aside without really thinking. Now, as she held it between her fingers, she turned it over, feeling the smooth metal against her skin.
Ella had said it was for luck. But Amelia knew, deep down, that it wasn’t about luck.
It was about reminders. About grounding. About knowing that no matter how far she went, there was something tying her back.
She fastened it around her wrist again. The room felt different now. Lighter, maybe. Or just... ready.
She stepped back and surveyed the suitcase, the packed boxes stacked near her door.
This was it. Tomorrow, she would leave. Tomorrow, everything would change.
She sat down by the window, watching as the last of the sunlight turned the rooftops a deep amber. The sky stretched out endlessly beyond them, open and full of possibility.
She reached for her journal, flipping to a fresh page, and picked up a pen.
"Tomorrow, I leave for Plymouth."
"I don’t know exactly what I’ll find there, or what kind of person I’ll become. But I think I’m ready."
"Or at least, I hope I am."
She tapped the pen against the page before adding one last line.
"If nothing else—I’ll listen."
She closed the journal.
And for the first time that day, she felt a quiet kind of peace settle in.
Chapter 4 - The Journey
There was a soft huff on the other end. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”
A pause, then—“Listen, I was thinking... Why don’t I just drive you down?”
Amelia blinked. “What?”
“To Plymouth.”
“I—” Amelia sat up straighter, phone pressed closer to her ear. “I mean, you don’t have to. I already have a train ticket, and—”
“Oh, please. Like I’m going to let you struggle with your suitcase alone through Paddington and god knows how many connections.” Ella snorted. “Besides, you know I love a road trip. And this way, we can stop at some places on the way. One last little adventure before you go off and get all smart and academic.”
Amelia hesitated, but the thought of spending more time with Ella before everything changed... It was tempting.
She chewed her lip. “Are you sure?”
“Completely. I’ll be at yours in the morning. Pack snacks.”
And with that, Ella hung up, leaving Amelia staring at the screen, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
The sun was still low when Amelia stepped outside, suitcase rolling behind her, the cool London morning brushing against her skin. The quiet hum of her neighborhood waking up wrapped around her—the distant bark of a dog, the sound of a car pulling out of a driveway, the faint chatter of people walking past.
Her father was already outside, loading the suitcase into the trunk of Ella’s small but reliable car. Across the street, Mrs. Patel from next door waved from her garden.
“Off to university today, Amelia?”
Amelia forced a smile. “Yeah.”
“Exciting times! Best of luck, dear.”
“Thanks,” Amelia called back, shifting her weight awkwardly. She wasn’t sure if exciting was the right word.
Ella was leaning against the driver’s side door, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the early hour. “Alright, road trip rules: You’re in charge of music, we stop for coffee at least twice, and if I say I want fries, I’m getting fries.”
Amelia let out a breath of a laugh. “Got it.”
Before getting in the car, she turned back toward the house.
Her home.
The window to her bedroom was still open a crack, curtains fluttering. It felt... surreal, seeing it like this, knowing she wouldn’t be coming back to sleep in that bed for a long time.
She let her eyes wander—the familiar dent in the wooden porch where she had dropped her bike too many times, the faint chalk marks on the pavement from years ago, the front door with its slightly chipped blue paint.
All these small things that had been part of her life, blending into the background.
And now, she was leaving.
A deep breath. Then she turned to her father, who was waiting beside the car.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then, without hesitation, he pulled her into a hug—one of those rare, steady embraces that made her feel, just for a moment, like a child again. Like nothing had to change.
“I’m proud of you, Amelia,” he murmured. His voice was warm, steady. But there was something beneath it—something almost fragile.
Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat and hugged him tighter.
When they pulled apart, he cleared his throat, then reached into his pocket and handed her a small envelope.
“Open it when you get there.”
Amelia frowned. “What is it?”
He shook his head, a small smirk on his lips. “You’ll see.”
She rolled her eyes but tucked it into the front pocket of her bag.
Before anything could get too sentimental, Ella leaned on the car horn.
“Alright, alright,” she called out. “I’d love to cry with you both, but we’ve got a long drive ahead and limited snack rations. Let’s go!”
Amelia let out a breath, laughing softly.
Her father smiled, shaking his head. “She hasn’t changed.”
“Nope.”
She stepped back, gripping the strap of her bag, and took a final look at him. “I’ll call you when I get there.”
He nodded, his eyes soft. “Take care, Amelia.”
She hesitated for just a second longer—then turned and climbed into the passenger seat.
Ella pulled away from the curb, and Amelia looked back through the window as they drove down the street.
The houses, the shops, the people—it all started to blur, shrinking into the distance.
She exhaled slowly, turning forward.
Excitement. Sadness. Nervousness.
All tangled together as they left London behind.
And for the first time, it felt real.
She was leaving.
For real.
The city unfolded around them in layers, slowly shedding its dense streets and high-rises for wider roads, scattered patches of green, and the distant shimmer of the open sky. Amelia had always known London as a city of motion, but now, watching it slip away through the car window, it felt like something entirely different—something she was leaving behind in real time.
Ella, of course, was completely in her element.
“Right,” she said, flipping down her sunglasses dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the grand tour of ‘Stuff We’ve Driven Past Before But Are Now Officially Appreciating Since One Of Us Is Leaving.’”
Amelia snorted, resting her head against the window. “Sounds like an exclusive experience.”
“Oh, it is,” Ella continued, waving a hand toward a cluster of buildings. “To your left, we have the place where you tripped and absolutely ate pavement when we were fourteen.”
Amelia groaned. “Do we have to start there?”
“We absolutely do.” Ella grinned. “And if you look carefully at that traffic light up ahead—yes, the one we’re currently stopping at—you’ll see the spot where I convinced you to pretend to be my long-lost twin sister so we could get a discount on that amusement park ticket.”
“Ah, yes,” Amelia muttered, shaking her head. “The time we got caught immediately because you told them our last name was ‘Johnsonson.’”
“Look, I panicked.”
They both laughed, and for a while, the tension that had been sitting in Amelia’s chest since that morning eased a little.
The further they got from London, the lighter the air seemed. Amelia found herself watching the scenery change—the roads widening, traffic thinning, signs pointing toward places she barely recognized.
Ella had a playlist running, alternating between questionable pop songs and indie tracks Amelia had never heard before. Every now and then, she’d sing along—badly—tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm.
“Alright, so,” Ella announced between verses, “I have some stops planned.”
Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. Because you, my dear friend, are in dire need of some fun before the impending doom of higher education swallows you whole.”
“Wow. You really make it sound appealing.”
Ella waved a hand dismissively. “Details, details.”
She tapped on the GPS and pointed ahead. “First stop? A café I found online that apparently makes the best hot chocolate in the entire south of England.”
Amelia perked up slightly. “I do like hot chocolate.”
“I know you do,” Ella said smugly. “Then, if we make good time, we might swing by this little beach spot before we hit Plymouth. A proper farewell to your days as a free woman.”
“Very dramatic of you.”
“I do my best.”
Amelia shook her head, but she couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.
It was so Ella—filling every quiet moment, always making sure Amelia wasn’t left too long with her own thoughts.
And, truthfully, she was grateful for it.
A couple of hours in, Ella insisted on pulling into a busy motorway rest stop.
“I need crisps,” she declared, parking the car with unnecessary flair. “And maybe a questionable sandwich.”
Amelia rolled her eyes but followed her inside.
The rest stop was its own little world—bright, bustling, filled with travelers passing through, barely noticing one another. The smell of coffee and frying oil clung to the air, blending with the low hum of overlapping conversations.
Ella made a beeline for the snack aisle, muttering under her breath about crisp flavors, while Amelia wandered toward the coffee counter.
As she stood in line, waiting, she saw them.
Two girls, just a few steps away.
One had bright red hair, the kind that seemed to catch the light at just the right angles. Her voice was sharp, confident, carrying across the space even though she wasn’t speaking loudly.
The other girl, standing slightly behind her, was different. Quieter. Withdrawn. Her gaze flickered across the floor, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweater as if she were trying to make herself smaller.
For some reason, Amelia felt a strange pull in her stomach.
They weren’t familiar—not really—but something about them lingered in her mind.
Before she could place it, Ella appeared beside her, dramatically holding up two bags of crisps.
“Salt and vinegar or cheese and onion? Choose wisely.”
Amelia blinked, snapping back to reality. “Uh… salt and vinegar?”
“An excellent choice.”
Ella tossed the bag onto the counter with a flourish, and just like that, the moment passed.
By the time they walked back to the car, Amelia barely remembered why she had paused at all.
Ella’s insistence on the café stop was, predictably, unshakable.
“You don’t understand, Amelia,” she said as she turned off the motorway. “This place has been scientifically proven to have the best hot chocolate in all of southern England.”
“Scientifically?” Amelia arched an eyebrow.
“Well, by me. And by multiple enthusiastic reviews from old ladies on TripAdvisor.”
Amelia shook her head with a chuckle as they pulled into a quiet little village square.
It looked straight out of a storybook—cobbled streets worn smooth from centuries of footfalls, a row of pastel-colored storefronts, and a towering old church spire peeking out from between slate rooftops. A soft drizzle had started falling, misting the air just enough to blur the edges of everything, making it feel almost like a memory.
Ella parked near a tiny café with a hand-painted wooden sign that read Cocoa & Co. The warm glow from inside spilled onto the damp pavement, inviting them in from the cool air outside.
The moment they stepped inside, **the smell hit Amelia instantly—**rich, velvety chocolate mingled with the scent of fresh pastries. A little bell above the door chimed, and an elderly woman behind the counter greeted them with a knowing smile.
“Two hot chocolates, please,” Ella announced before Amelia even had a chance to glance at the menu.
“Make mine dark,” Amelia added, pulling her coat off.
Ella grinned at her, as if to say, See? You trust me.
They found a cozy corner table by the window, the view outside framed by trailing ivy and misty village streets. Across from them, a small bookshelf stood against the wall, filled with a haphazard mix of novels, history books, and handwritten recipe collections.
“You know, I’m still debating whether I should just crash in your dorm,” Ella mused as she stretched her legs beneath the table. “I could blend in. Maybe wear a hoodie, act mysterious. People would think I’m some artsy dropout who never leaves.”
Amelia snorted. “Pretty sure that wouldn’t last long.”
“Rude.”
The laughter between them faded slightly, settling into something quieter. Outside, the drizzle had thickened into a gentle rain, speckling the window with tiny droplets.
Ella studied Amelia for a moment.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” she asked.
Amelia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she wrapped her hands around her mug, watching as the steam curled into the air.
“I guess I just... don’t know if I’m ready for all of it,” she admitted. “New place, new people. What if I just—”
“Stop,” Ella cut in gently. “I know you. You overthink, you hesitate, and then—when it actually happens—you’re fine. You’re better than fine.”
Amelia sighed, shaking her head. “How are you always so sure?”
Ella shrugged. “Because I remember the way you used to climb trees even though you were terrified of heights. The way you made us sneak into the fancy hotel pool that one summer just because you wanted to know if the water felt different.”
Amelia smiled, half-laughing at the memory.
“You take risks,” Ella continued. “You just don’t always realize it. And this?” She gestured around them. “This is just another one.”
Amelia looked at her, taking in the certainty in her voice.
She wanted to believe it.
As they stood to leave, Amelia trailed her fingers along the spines of the books on the café’s bookshelf, absently skimming the titles.
Then, one caught her eye.
The Right and Perfectest Meanes.
She hesitated, tilting her head. The title felt oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place why.
Before she could open it, Ella called over her shoulder. “Come on, nerd, we’ve got a beach to get to.”
Amelia shook off the feeling and followed her out into the rain.
The village slipped behind them, swallowed by winding roads and a soft mist rolling over the countryside.
A few miles later, as they passed a fork in the road, Amelia caught sight of an old wooden sign, weathered by time.
It pointed toward Plymouth.
Carved into its surface, almost faded beyond recognition, was the faint outline of a phoenix.
Amelia’s chest tightened, though she couldn’t explain why.
By the time they reached the coast, the drizzle had faded into a cold, salty breeze. The sky stretched overhead in soft greys and deep blues, and the sea rolled onto the shore in slow, rhythmic waves.
“This is it,” Ella said, kicking off her shoes. “The final stop before University Life claims your soul.”
Amelia huffed a laugh. “Dramatic.”
Ella grinned. “Oh, you haven’t seen dramatic yet.”
And with that, she bolted toward the water.
Amelia barely had time to react before Ella was wading into the waves, arms spread wide, shouting something about baptizing herself in the holy waters of adventure.
Amelia groaned. “Ella, it’s freezing.”
“I don’t care!”
Amelia rolled her eyes, but even as she said it, she found herself stepping forward.
The sand was cold beneath her feet, the water lapping at the edges of her boots. The air smelled of salt and something old, something endless.
Ella turned back toward her, grinning. “Come on, Amelia. You can’t leave without touching the sea.”
For a moment, Amelia hesitated.
But then—**without giving herself time to think—**she pulled off her coat, kicked off her shoes, and ran forward.
The first wave hit like a shock.
She gasped, laughing as the cold wrapped around her ankles, then her knees. Ella splashed water at her, and soon they were **playing like children—**racing waves, shrieking when the tide chased them too far inland.
And then—just for a moment—everything stilled.
They stood knee-deep in the water, the waves ebbing around them, the wind tugging at their hair. Amelia looked at Ella, and something in the air shifted.
A sense of weight. Of something unspoken.
Ella met her gaze, her expression softer than before, almost searching.
The moment stretched.
And then—**just as quickly as it had come—**Ella turned, kicking up water as she laughed and ran toward the shore.
“Race you back!”
Amelia hesitated, then smiled, shaking her head.
She didn’t know what that had been.
But she knew she’d remember it.
And so—she ran.
By the time they pulled onto the final stretch of road, the sky had shifted into a soft, dusky blue, the last slivers of daylight stretching over the horizon. The town unfolded before them—a mix of old and new, historical buildings standing alongside modern cafes and student-filled streets.
Ella had the windows rolled down, her arm resting lazily against the side of the car as she hummed to whatever song played softly through the speakers.
“This is it,” she said, her voice tinged with both excitement and something quieter beneath it.
Amelia took a slow breath, trying to take it all in.
The realization settled somewhere deep in her chest—this wasn’t just another trip. There wouldn’t be a drive back home tomorrow. This was home now.
The thought made her stomach twist, though she wasn’t sure if it was nerves or something else entirely.
The closer they got to the university, the more the atmosphere shifted. The streets grew busier—students weaving between traffic, groups gathered outside pubs, laughter spilling onto the sidewalks.
Amelia spotted a bookstore she already wanted to visit, a tiny secondhand shop tucked between a bakery and a music store, its window display full of faded book covers and handwritten price tags.
“Alright, where’s your castle?” Ella teased, squinting at the GPS as they navigated through campus roads.
“Dorms are that way,” Amelia pointed, feeling an odd mix of relief and anticipation.
Ella turned onto a quieter lane lined with brick buildings and stretches of green space, leading them toward the student housing. Signs directed them toward reception, where Amelia needed to check in.
The moment they parked, Ella stretched dramatically.
“Well,” she said, grinning at Amelia. “Shall we?”
After picking up her key and a folder full of university information, Amelia followed Ella through the halls, her stomach twisting with nerves.
She had no idea what to expect.
Would it be cold and sterile, like a hotel? Or too small, too unfamiliar, too much?
But as she pushed open the door, she found something in between.
The dorm was simple—a bed tucked against the wall, a desk by the window, shelves waiting to be filled. The air was stale, untouched, waiting.
Ella flopped onto the bed immediately, stretching out like she owned the place.
“Well, it’s official,” she said. “This is now Amelia’s domain.”
Amelia rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but smile.
She walked to the window, pushing it open slightly. The air smelled different here. Saltier. Fresher. The distant hum of voices, the faint sound of seagulls—it was all so new.
“You’re gonna be okay here,” Ella said suddenly, voice softer.
Amelia turned. Something in Ella’s face was unreadable for a moment, but then she smiled.
And just like that, the nerves faded.
But then, too soon, it was time.
Ella stood by the car, hands on her hips, looking ridiculously out of place in a sea of fresh-faced students and overstuffed suitcases.
“Well, my work here is done,” she announced. “You have successfully been deposited at your new home.”
Amelia felt a pang in her chest.
She didn’t want her to leave.
But she forced a smile anyway. “Guess this is it.”
Ella studied her for a second, then wrapped her in a hug so tight Amelia could barely breathe.
“I’m always just a phone call away, nerd,” she murmured.
Amelia nodded into her shoulder, not trusting herself to speak.
When they pulled apart, Ella gave her a final grin, ruffling her hair.
“Go be brilliant,” she said, stepping into the driver’s seat.
And then, just like that, she was gone.
Amelia stood in the quiet, watching the taillights disappear.
For the first time, she was alone.
Back in her dorm, Amelia lay on the unfamiliar mattress, staring at the ceiling.
The day had been full. Full of laughter, of nerves, of something that felt like the edge of a new beginning.
She curled onto her side, eyes drifting shut.
And for the first time in forever, she felt something close to peace.
Amelia was halfway through folding a sweater when her phone buzzed beside her on the bed. She sighed, tossing the sweater into her suitcase before glancing at the screen.
She smirked, already expecting whatever chaotic energy was coming her way, and answered.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Ella’s voice was bright, teasing. “What are you doing right now?”
“Packing,” Amelia groaned. “Or pretending to. I keep finding old books and getting distracted.”
Chapter 5 - First steps
Amelia drifted between sleep and wakefulness, her body weightless, caught in the lingering edges of a dream she couldn’t quite hold onto.
The ceiling above her was white, unfamiliar, a little uneven where the plaster had settled in waves over time. It wasn’t home.
The quiet hum of the early morning outside reminded her of that before she had the chance to forget.
For a moment, she stayed still, her breath slow, her body curled into the warmth of the duvet. She listened. The occasional thud of a door closing. Footsteps in the hallway. Laughter—muffled, distant. The weight of yesterday settled in her chest, the memory of the long drive, the beach, Ella’s voice filling the car with its easy, effortless warmth. And then the goodbye, the tight hug before Ella drove off into the night, leaving Amelia at the threshold of something new.
She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face before sitting up. The air in the room was cool, the window cracked just enough to let in the early autumn breeze. Outside, the campus stirred. A low murmur of voices floated in from below—students dragging suitcases over the uneven pavement, parents lingering at their cars, giving last-minute reassurances they’d probably rehearsed the whole way here.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the wood floor cool beneath her bare feet. The morning stretched before her, empty and unstructured. Orientation wasn’t until later. There was no one waiting for her, no expectations yet, just time and space and the soft, uncertain shape of what came next.
The shower was small, almost closet-like, but the warm water did its job in shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The scent of someone else’s shampoo lingered in the air, floral and unfamiliar. Amelia ran a towel through her damp hair as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—her brown eyes still heavy with exhaustion, her lips pressed into the faintest frown. She had expected to feel something more this morning. Excitement? Anxiety? But all she felt was a quiet stillness, like standing at the edge of something just before stepping forward.
Dressed in a soft jumper and jeans, she left her room, the air in the hallway thick with movement and conversation. The dorms were alive now. Doors stood open as people carried in boxes, hung posters, greeted new roommates. Amelia didn’t stop to watch, letting the momentum of her own steps guide her outside.
The sky was a pale grey, the kind of overcast that softened the light without swallowing it. The air smelled of damp leaves and coffee, carried from the open windows of a nearby café. A girl with bright blue hair walked past, laughing at something her friend said. A boy leaned against a lamppost, absorbed in his phone, his suitcase still sitting unopened at his feet.
Amelia wandered toward a small stone bench near the edge of the main walkway, a spot just out of the main flow of people. She wasn’t sure why she chose it, only that it felt like the right place to sit. As she lowered herself onto the cold stone, her gaze caught on something metallic—an old plaque embedded in the bench’s surface.
The words were carved deep, the edges smoothed by time:
Quod natura relinquit imperfectum, ars perficit.
Amelia frowned, tracing the words with her eyes. Latin. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but the phrase stirred something in her, a quiet curiosity pressing at the edges of her thoughts. She made a mental note to look it up later.
For now, she let her gaze settle on the movement of the campus around her, students coming and going, voices mingling, the city just beyond the university grounds humming with its own quiet life.
She inhaled deeply, letting the crispness of the morning ground her. This place—this newness—was hers now.
Amelia lingered on the bench a little longer, watching the slow rhythm of the campus unfold before her. A part of her wasn’t quite ready to retreat back inside, to face the reality of the small, unfamiliar dorm room that would be her home for the foreseeable future. But the chill in the air nudged at her skin, reminding her that morning would only stretch so far before the weight of the day took over.
With a deep breath, she stood and made her way back inside. The dorm building was noticeably busier now—voices drifting through open doors, the occasional clatter of something being unpacked, bursts of laughter bouncing off the walls. It was strange, stepping into this new world where everyone was still nameless, where every interaction held the potential to be the first of something important, or just another fleeting moment in the tide of university life.
She hesitated outside her room, hand hovering over the door handle. For some reason, it felt like stepping into something irreversible, like once she walked in, she would be committing to this new life fully. But that was ridiculous. She had already committed the moment she packed her bags, the moment she watched Ella drive away.
She pushed the door open.
The first thing she noticed was the sound—a quiet rustling of paper, the occasional thump of books being stacked. A guy stood on the other side of the room, his back turned toward her as he unpacked a box onto his desk. His dark hair was slightly messy, curling at the edges as if he had run his hands through it one too many times.
Amelia froze in the doorway, caught between the awkwardness of making an introduction and the slight, ridiculous fear that maybe she had stepped into the wrong room.
Then he turned, blinking behind thin, rectangular glasses. He was taller than she expected, lean, with a sharp, almost academic look about him. But his expression wasn’t unfriendly—just mildly surprised, as if he had been expecting her at some point but hadn’t fully prepared himself for the moment.
"You must be Amelia," he said, pushing his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. His voice was steady, not overly warm, but not cold either.
She nodded, stepping fully inside and letting the door click shut behind her. "Yeah. And you’re...?"
"Lucas," he supplied, offering a small nod before turning back to his books.
A silence stretched between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but not effortless either. Amelia glanced at the books he was carefully arranging—titles on psychology, philosophy, some fiction mixed in. The spines were well-worn, familiar.
She tilted her head. "You read The Interpretation of Dreams?"
Lucas glanced up, following her gaze to the Freud book in his hands. "I prefer Jung, but yeah. Dreams are fascinating."
That sparked something—a flicker of familiarity in this strange, new space. "I had the weirdest dream last night," Amelia mused, mostly to herself, but Lucas raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"About what?"
She hesitated. The park, the golden light, the lingering feeling of someone missing. It all felt too personal to spill out so quickly. Instead, she shrugged. "Nothing important. Just… something I can’t quite place."
Lucas considered her for a moment before setting the book down. "That’s usually when dreams matter the most."
She smiled, a small curve of her lips. "You sound like a professor."
Lucas smirked, the first real expression she had seen from him. "I’ll take that as a compliment."
Something in the air between them shifted, the ice not quite broken but beginning to crack. Amelia had no idea what kind of roommate Lucas would be, whether they would become friends or simply exist as polite cohabitants. But in that moment, something about him felt solid, steady—like a person who didn’t rush things, who let moments unfold in their own time.
Amelia let out a slow breath and turned toward her side of the room. The bed was still untouched, the sheets folded neatly, waiting for her to make them her own. The suitcase she had barely cracked open earlier sat beside it, a silent reminder that this space wasn’t hers yet—not really.
She sat on the edge of the bed, running her hand over the mattress. The fabric was stiff, unfamiliar. She had lived in the same room in London for so long that she hadn’t thought about what it would feel like to wake up somewhere new, to have the scent of old books and warm coffee replaced by the sterile air of a shared dorm.
Lucas, seeming to sense the shift in her mood, cleared his throat. "You’re just going to stare at your suitcase forever?"
Amelia huffed a small laugh. "I might."
"You’ll have to unpack eventually. Unless you’re planning to live out of that thing like some wandering scholar."
Amelia rolled her eyes but unzipped the suitcase anyway. As she pulled out the first few pieces of clothing, neatly folded by her father’s careful hands, she felt the weight of home pressing against her chest. She shook it off and started organizing them into the small dresser beside her bed.
Lucas had gone back to his own unpacking, but she could feel his quiet presence in the room, a steady, unintrusive force. It was oddly reassuring.
She moved next to her desk, pulling out a few framed photos. One of her and Ella, arms slung around each other, grinning wildly at the camera in some blurry, late-night adventure. Another of her father, standing at the shore in Cornwall, wind blowing through his hair as he squinted at the sea. And a smaller one, slightly worn at the edges, of her younger self, sitting on a picnic blanket with her mother, their heads close together as if caught mid-laugh.
She traced the edge of that last one before propping it against the wall.
Lucas glanced over from his side of the room. "You’re one of those people, huh?"
Amelia raised an eyebrow. "One of what people?", "The sentimental type. Pinning up memories like puzzle pieces, trying to make a place feel like home before you even know what it is."
She considered that, then smirked. "And what does that make you? The type that keeps their past hidden in a box somewhere?"
Lucas chuckled, low and amused. "Something like that."
Amelia taped the last photo to the wall, stepping back to admire her work. The space already felt warmer, less like a blank slate and more like something hers. The nerves hadn’t faded completely, but in this small act of claiming a piece of the room, she felt a little steadier.
Lucas, having finished stacking his books, stretched his arms behind his head. "So, what’s the verdict? You feeling more at home yet?"
Amelia glanced around. The photos, the books, the soft scent of her own laundry mixing with the sterile dorm air. "Almost," she said.
Lucas nodded, as if that was the only answer he expected. "Good enough for now."
Amelia stepped outside, pulling her hoodie tight against the sharp breeze. The sky was a dull, pale grey, the kind that promised rain without ever quite delivering. The air smelled like damp grass and old stone, tinged with something faintly metallic—maybe the lingering breath of the sea carried in from the coast. She hesitated on the dorm steps, watching the slow pulse of student life unfurl around her.
Campus felt like an entire world condensed into winding paths and towering buildings. The main quad spread before her, a patchwork of movement. Some students sat cross-legged on the grass, deep in hushed conversations, their heads bowed close together like conspirators. Others sprawled on their backs, arms folded behind their heads, staring up at the sky as if waiting for some grand revelation to fall from the clouds.
A frisbee arced through the air, barely missing a girl who was balancing two paper coffee cups. She sidestepped at the last second with a fluid ease, shooting the thrower an unimpressed look before continuing on her way. Laughter erupted from a nearby bench where a group of students were locked in a rapid-fire debate—something about psychology, or ethics, or both. Amelia caught a few fragments of their conversation as she walked by: conditioning… cognitive biases… but what about free will?
It was like stepping into a moving river, one she wasn’t sure how to swim in yet.
She let her feet take her forward, past towering buildings of brick and glass. The grand stone library loomed ahead, its heavy wooden doors cracked open, revealing glimpses of warm light and endless rows of books. She could already picture herself tucked into one of the corners, the soft hush of pages turning around her.
A little further on, she spotted the student union—a sleek, modern building buzzing with movement. The scent of coffee and fresh pastries wafted from within, mixing with the low hum of conversation spilling out onto the steps. Students crowded the entrance, some leaning against the railing as they talked, others tapping hurried messages into their phones.
To her right, nestled in the courtyard, a small café sat tucked between two ivy-covered buildings. Its mismatched outdoor tables were filled with students curled over notebooks and steaming mugs. The sight of it stirred something in her chest—an echo of home. She and Ella had spent entire afternoons in places like this, losing hours to caffeine-fueled conversations about everything and nothing.
The thought made her stomach clench. Ella wasn’t here.
She pushed forward, winding her way toward a stone fountain at the heart of campus. Water trickled down its moss-lined edges, the sound blending with the scattered voices around her. A group of students lounged on its ledge, their presence almost magnetic.
One of them—a girl with cropped dark hair and sharp features—tilted her head back in laughter, the sound bright and edged with something else. There was a tension in her, a slight stiffness in her shoulders that didn’t quite match the easy way she laughed. Amelia
wasn’t sure why, but something about her stuck—like a note in a song that lingered long after it was played.
She tore her gaze away, scanning the crowd.
Further down the path, leaning against a railing, was another girl—tall, striking, and commanding attention without effort. Her posture was relaxed, arms crossed as she spoke to a group gathered around her. There was something about her presence, something self-assured, like she knew exactly who she was and had no need to prove it to anyone.
For a brief moment, the girl’s gaze flickered toward Amelia. Their eyes met.
It was nothing—just a passing glance. But there was a strange energy to it, something unreadable. Challenge? Amusement? Recognition?
Amelia swallowed, shifting her focus back to the path ahead.
She wove through the unfamiliar, through the quiet hum of life happening around her. She felt like a ghost drifting through someone else’s world, an observer rather than a participant. But as she kept walking, past the clusters of students and the landmarks she would soon know by heart, the weight in her chest lightened.
Maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to step into something new.
Amelia pushed open the door to her dorm room, the cool metal handle solid beneath her fingers. The familiar scent of cardboard and fresh linen greeted her, but the room itself still felt like it belonged to someone else—too bare, too temporary. A place waiting to become something.
Lucas was sprawled in his desk chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, book in hand. His dark-rimmed glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, but he hadn’t bothered to push them back up. The desk lamp cast a warm pool of light over his space, making his corner of the room feel oddly lived-in, despite the fact that they had both only arrived today.
He glanced up when she stepped inside. “How was it?”
Amelia hesitated, still standing near the door. She had walked the entire campus, seen everything from the grand library to the tucked-away café corners, yet somehow she still wasn’t sure how to answer that question.
“A lot,” she finally said, dropping onto her bed with a sigh.
Lucas smirked, his book still open but now ignored. “Yeah. It gets easier.”
She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him. “How would you know? Have you secretly been here before?”
“I have my ways.” He tapped the side of his head. “Intuition. Observation. The fact that every single person I passed today looked equally overwhelmed.”
Amelia huffed a small laugh, kicking off her shoes and letting them thud onto the floor. “Yeah, well, observation isn’t my strong suit. I just feel like I spent the last hour getting lost and trying not to look like I was getting lost.”
Lucas shut his book with a decisive thump. “Classic first-day experience.” He gestured vaguely toward her. “Did you find anything interesting?”
She thought back to the campus—her first glimpses of the library, the café, the memorial plaque on the bench. The girl by the fountain with the guarded laugh. The other one, tall and unreadable, meeting her gaze for that brief second.
“There’s this memorial plaque near the dorms,” she said after a moment. “It’s in Latin, I think? Quod natura relinquit imperfectum, ars perficit.”
Lucas’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of interest in his otherwise neutral expression. “Art perfects what nature leaves unfinished.”
Amelia blinked. “Wait, you actually know Latin?”
He shrugged. “Enough to translate things in old books.”
“That’s… honestly kind of impressive.”
He smirked. “Yeah, well, don’t be too impressed. I can’t order a sandwich in Italian, but I can read dead philosophers. Not very useful in everyday life.”
Amelia let out a breath, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s useful in a way that matters.”
Lucas didn’t answer right away. For a while, the only sound in the room was the distant chatter from the hallway outside, the occasional thud of someone dropping a suitcase or shuffling down the corridor. The weight of the day settled over Amelia—excitement, exhaustion, the undeniable awareness of how much had changed in just twenty-four hours.
She turned onto her side, pressing her cheek against the pillow. Lucas had already gone back to his book, the conversation slipping away as naturally as it had started.
For the first time, the unfamiliar space around her felt a little less foreign.
Maybe, she thought, this could be home.
She just had to figure out what that meant.