Northvale wasn't unfamiliar to me anymore.
The tall arches, the quiet breeze, the sound of pages turning inside the Library of Dawn—
I had grown used to all of it.
Maybe even found comfort in it.
Studying, working my part-time job from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m., preparing for the next day—
that's how my life has been moving here.
When I first arrived, nothing was easy.
The first problem was the house. I had to rent a place since I didn't get a dorm room at the time. And even then, I couldn't enter immediately. The previous tenants hadn't left yet, so for days I stayed in the narrow space in front of the room, waiting.
Then came the issue of communication.
I had to spend days learning the language before I could speak to anyone properly.
Fortunately, I found a job early on; it eased things a little.
Eventually, my dorm room came through.
I finished my undergraduate degree here.
Now I'm starting my graduate studies.
Through everything, I kept telling myself,
"Lily, you can do it. Just endure a little more."
I stood in front of the notice board, scanning for seminars and internship opportunities.
The wind wasn't cold today, but not warm either—just somewhere in between.
Nothing new.
Just the same announcements from yesterday.
I hugged my books to my chest and turned toward my classroom.
Morning classes and evening shifts were exhausting, but I was still managing. Somehow.
The class had already begun when I reached the door.
I slipped inside quietly, careful not to disrupt the professor. A few students turned their heads, but most were focused on the board.
Cindy had kept a seat for me, as always.
She was the first person I connected with here—the first face that felt familiar in a place full of strangers. We'd lived next to each other since my earliest days in Northvale; her room and mine shared a thin wall, and somehow that small closeness turned into friendship. From the moment I first met her, Cindy had a kind of softness that stayed with you.
Her hair was the first thing people noticed—a warm, golden blonde that fell in loose waves down her shoulders, catching light in a way that made her look almost unreal. When she turned her head, the strands shifted like silk brushing against her skin.
Her eyes were hazel—light, warm, and always steady. The kind of eyes that made you feel listened to, even when she didn't say anything. Cindy wasn't loud or overly expressive, but she had a quiet brightness about her, a natural gentleness that people gravitated toward without realizing it.
Her features were delicate: a smooth, fair complexion, a soft jawline, a small straight nose, and lips that curved into easy, sincere smiles. She didn't dress extravagantly, yet everything she wore somehow looked graceful on her—as if elegance was simply part of who she was.
Standing beside her always felt oddly comforting.
Maybe it was her calm presence, or the way she carried herself with quiet confidence.
Whatever it was, Cindy had a beauty that didn't ask for attention—it just existed, quietly, unmistakably.
I eased into the seat beside her.
"You're lucky," she whispered, leaning slightly toward me. "The lecture just started."
I smiled back, letting out the breath I'd been holding. "Where's Elinda?"
Elinda was another neighbor—our trio felt complete when she was with us. She had a way of making even the hardest days feel lighter, a comfort I didn't realize I needed until she became part of my routine.
The classroom was one of the older rooms in the humanities wing—spacious, quiet, and washed in soft morning light. Tall windows lined the left wall, their frames dark oak, their glass slightly rippled with age. Sunlight filtered through them in pale strips, warming the wooden floor that had been polished so many times you could almost see your reflection in it.
The desks were arranged in neat rows instead of a semi-circle, each paired table carrying small signs of use—faded edges, carved initials, the occasional ink stain that no one bothered to remove. The air smelled faintly of old paper and the citrus cleaner the janitors used every morning.
At the front stood a wide chalkboard, its surface covered halfway with clean, handwritten notes. A projector hung from the ceiling, its soft hum blending with the quiet murmur of students flipping through their books.
The professor's desk was tidy—just a stack of papers, a closed laptop, and a glass cup filled with pens. He was strict about order, and it showed in the way everything in the room seemed perfectly in place.
Cindy and I always sat toward the middle—close enough to see the board clearly, far enough to avoid being singled out. A few students near the back whispered softly among themselves, while others took notes with the kind of focus only first-week enthusiasm could create.
Through the windows, I could see the branches of the old courtyard oak swaying gently in the breeze, casting moving shadows along the wall. Something about that view always calmed me, even on days like this, when my mind refused to stay still.
By the time our classes were done, the sky outside had already begun to soften into the warm light of late afternoon. It was almost 5 p.m. Cindy and I packed our things and headed toward the dorms together, walking side by side through the courtyard.
I had work in the evening, so I needed to change quickly and leave.
Cindy also had her part-time shift, but hers started a little later than mine. She always said she preferred evening hours—the city felt calmer then, and she liked walking to work with the streetlights just beginning to glow.
The wind was cooler now, brushing gently against the fallen leaves scattered across the path. A few students lingered in the courtyard, laughing, taking pictures, or hurrying back to their rooms before the temperature dropped.
Cindy glanced at me. "Are you tired?"
"A little," I admitted. "But I'll manage."
She smiled in the way she always did—light, encouraging, sincere.
***
We walked together toward the gate, our steps quiet against the stone path. Cindy's shift started thirty minutes after mine, so she liked accompanying me most of the way before turning toward the café district.
The sky had already begun to dim, the pale orange of evening fading into a cooler blue. Lamps along the pathway flickered on one by one, their warm glow settling gently over the campus.
"I think I'll stop by the lounge before work," Cindy said, tightening her grip on her bag. "Elinda promised to help me review the hiring pamphlets."
"Good," I said. "Don't stress too much about the new position. You'll do fine."
She laughed softly. "Says the girl who works three hours straight without taking a break."
"That's called survival," I replied, and she nudged my arm lightly.
As we neared the corner of the east courtyard, Cindy slowed. A small group of students was standing near the café terrace—three boys about our age, talking among themselves. One of them gestured animatedly while another listened with mild exasperation.
Cindy paused beside me. "That looks like the spot I'm supposed to meet Raina," she murmured, scanning the faces. "She said she'd wait near the café steps."
I nodded. "Then I'll leave you here."
She turned to me, her hazel eyes warm in the lamplight. "Take care at work, okay? Don't skip dinner again."
"I won't," I said, even though I probably would.
Cindy stepped toward the café steps, and I watched briefly as she approached the group.
One of the boys—tall, sharp-featured, glasses glinting under the lamplight—noticed her first. He straightened almost instinctively, offering a slight nod. She greeted him politely, her smile gentle, and something about his expression softened.
Another boy caught my eyes. His build was quite similar to someone I knew. I didn't think much of it at the time.
I adjusted my scarf, pulled my bag a little higher on my shoulder, and turned toward the tram station.
Evening was settling over Ilinus—quiet, steady, familiar.
Another day behind me.
Another night of work ahead.