When we arrived at our new home—the one Professor Laura had somehow managed to arrange for us—she was already there, waiting on the porch. Waving her hand like we'd known each other for years.
"Welcome home, Maggie."
She welcomed us as if we belonged there, her eyes sparkling with warmth, her mouth curved in a genuine smile I'd never seen her wear before.
To everyone else at college, she'd been a mysterious beauty. Not talkative, beautiful, unapproachable. But to me, she'd always been a weirdo. At least before all this.
Now, somehow, I could feel it—she was my savior. The one who'd pulled me from my past, from drowning in that dark water. Or more like a dark hole—a depth that has no end.
I walked toward her, hesitant. My father's hand pressed gently against my back, urging me forward—as if telling me to go, thank her, talk to her.
I glanced back at him. He was holding Mom's right hand with his left, giving me a thumbs up with his right. Mom smiled too, gentle and trembling. I could see she was overwhelmed, trying her best to hold it together.
"Sara, please lead them in and show them around," Laura said, her voice calm and measured. "We'll join you soon."
Sara nodded and guided my parents inside. One of the movers followed them, probably to ask about the boxes, where to place everything.
I stood there with Laura on the porch, the rain misting softly around us. Awkward. My hands started to shake a little.
Then she spoke. "How are you holding up? You good?"
Her tone was gentle, trying to make conversation even though it didn't seem quite appropriate for the moment. Like she knew I needed something normal, something casual, to anchor myself.
I stood there, hands trembling, trying to find words. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft patter of rain.
Then it just came out.
"Do you think I'm useful?"
Straight. Blunt. No build-up, no easing into it. Just the raw question that had been sitting in my chest since I'd opened that envelope.
Laura blinked, surprised. Her expression shifted for just a moment.
I wanted to take it back immediately. That wasn't how normal people talked. Normal people said thank you first, made small talk, eased into things. They didn't just—
But I'd already said it. The words hung in the air between us, exposed.
She smiled. Not the full, warm expression from before—something quieter. More honest.
"To be honest, I'm not sure if you can do it." Her voice was measured, direct. "But I know one thing." She paused, her grey eyes holding mine. "If you can't, then no one can."
The words should have stung. *Not sure.* She wasn't sure about me.
But somehow, they didn't hurt. Maybe because she'd said it so plainly, without trying to cushion it with false reassurance. Maybe because the second part—*if you can't, then no one can*—felt heavier than the first. Like she'd already decided something about me that I couldn't see yet.
My lips curled a little. A small, involuntary smile.
Then she continued. "Let's drop the heavy things for later. Let's just move forward." She tilted her head slightly. "What do you say?"
Her tone was lighter now, deliberately shifting away from the weight of doubt and usefulness. Like she knew I needed a break from my own thoughts before they dragged me back.
I nodded. It was all I could manage.
She watched me for a moment, as if making sure I was actually okay with moving on. Then her expression softened.
"Good," she said quietly.
For a second, neither of us moved. We just stayed there, letting the moment settle. Laura's gaze drifted past me, following the soft curtain of rain beyond the porch. Her face was calm, almost wistful—like someone revisiting an old comfort.
She blinked, pulling herself back. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted—gentler, but more deliberate.
"From tomorrow, join me and observe."
Her tone grew more businesslike, though it stayed gentle. "The first three months will focus on core training. After that, astronaut training for space station travel."
She paused, letting that sink in. Astronaut training. The words felt surreal. I'd spent three years dreaming about disappearing into space, about parallel universes and other worlds—and now someone was actually going to train me to go study them.
"You're going to assist me, so you should match all of my schedules."
Her grey eyes held mine—steady, assessing. There was no hesitation in them, no room for negotiation. She'd already made up her mind.
Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "And you look skinny."
I blinked. That wasn't what I expected her to say.
"Join me early morning," she said matter-of-factly, as if it were already settled. "Wear something you can move freely in."
My mind was still catching up. Early morning. Training. Was she talking about—exercise? Physical training?
I must have looked confused because she smiled slightly.
"It's gym. We're going to train." Her tone was patient, explaining something obvious. "It's not only for your physical fitness—it's necessary for astronaut training too. So I have to make sure you fit the requirements perfectly, both physically and mentally."
*Gym.*
The word settled in my stomach like a stone.
I'd spent the last three years hiding in libraries, buried in books about parallel universes and theoretical physics. The closest I'd come to physical activity was walking from my apartment to campus, and even that left me winded sometimes. My body had become just another thing to hide from the world—pale, weak, something people stared at.
And now she wants me to do—what? Lift weights? Run? With her?
A flutter of panic rose in my chest.
"I..." I started, then stopped. What could I even say? *I've never been to a gym in my life.* *I can barely climb stairs without getting tired.*
Laura was watching me, waiting. Not pushing, just... waiting.
"Don't overthink." Her voice was calm, reading my panic easily. "It's my personal gym. No one would be there except us." She paused. "Sometimes Sara may come."
"Sara?" The name slipped out before I could stop it.
"Oh..." Laura's expression shifted slightly, something warmer crossing her face. "She's my childhood friend. By the way."
*Childhood friend.* Not just a professional coordinator, then. That explained the easy way Sara had moved around Laura earlier, the slight nod they'd exchanged without words.
The panic in my chest eased a little. *Personal gym. Just us. No strangers staring.*
I nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Good." Laura's smile returned. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. Six AM. Don't be late."
Six in the morning. Of course it was six in the morning.
I nodded, then hesitated. There was one more thing I needed to know.
"Professor—" I started, then stopped. She'd asked me to call her Sissy, but it still felt too strange, too informal. "Laura..."
She waited, patient.
"Should I really call you Sissy?" The words came out uncertain. "Can I stick with Sister?"
*Sister.* It felt safer somehow. More respectful, but still... close. Not as strange as "Sissy," not as distant as "Professor" or "Laura."
Laura blinked. Then—
She laughed.
Not a polite chuckle or a faint smile. She *laughed*, uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking. The sound was bright and unexpected, echoing across the porch. It was the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep, unguarded.
I stood there, frozen, my face heating up. What—what did I say? Was it that ridiculous?
My hands started shaking again, but this time from pure embarrassment. The air felt suddenly colder against my skin.
She was still laughing, trying to catch her breath. Her eyes were bright, almost tearful from the laughter. She wiped at the corner of one eye.
"I said it as teasing..." Her voice was light, playful, like she'd just realized something funny about herself.
Then her face changed. The laughter faded into something gentler, quieter. Almost vulnerable.
"But... if you call me Sister, I would really be happy."
The rain continued its soft patter around us. I could feel the mist settling on my skin, cool and light.
"One more thing, though." Her tone steadied again, but not cold—firm, with quiet pride. "Outside, call me *Sister.* But inside the lab..." She paused, meeting my eyes. "Call me *Professor.*"
"It's not to build distance," she said evenly. "It's about respect—for the work, for what I've built. For what that title means."
There was quiet pride in her voice—measured, steady, and unshaken.
I nodded slowly, understanding. "Okay."
She smiled—that quieter, more genuine expression that made her look less like the mysterious, unapproachable professor everyone knew, and more like someone real. Someone who'd lived through things. Someone who carried her pride with grace.
"Come on," she said, turning toward the door. "Let's go inside."
---
When we stepped inside, the home was humble—two bedrooms side by side, a big hall connecting them, and opposite, a kitchen and a study room welcomed me. It was already furnished, yet it had the signs of being already used. Not much though. The owner may have lived in another place and used this as a guest house.
Mom was with Sara, speaking inside the kitchen. Their voices were low, comfortable—Sara's calm tone mixing with Mom's softer, more hesitant one.
Dad was instructing the mover men, gesturing toward the bedrooms, pointing out where boxes should go. The situation somehow started to settle down.
I stood in the hall, taking it all in. The space felt lived-in but not crowded. Warm but not overwhelming. Like someone had carefully prepared it to feel like home without imposing too much of themselves on it.
Laura stood beside me, watching quietly. She didn't say anything, just let me absorb it. The sound of boxes being shuffled, Mom's gentle laughter from the kitchen, the mover's heavy footsteps—it all felt strangely normal.
"It's nice," I said quietly.
She smiled. "Good—honestly, I thought you'd complain."
I blinked, surprised. Complain? About this?
"I never..." I started, then stopped. My voice came out softer. "It's really comfortable."
Laura's expression shifted—something like relief, mixed with guilt. She looked away briefly, toward the kitchen where Mom and Sara were still talking.
"Sorry," she said quietly. "I thought I should build a new one, but things got out of hand." She paused, her grey eyes finding mine again. "Waiting for your course completion is the plan, but you didn't come to college for three days—you've never done that before. And I found out something bad happened. You know?"
"So I made all the preparations today. For you guys to move in."
One day. The earlier graduation.
The weight of it settled over me. She'd arranged the early graduation yesterday when she found out—and then did all this today. Found the place, furnished it, arranged everything. Because I hadn't shown up to class. Because she'd known something was wrong.
My throat tightened.
"You did all this in one day?" The words came out barely above a whisper.
She nodded, matter-of-fact. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like rearranging her entire life to pull someone out of a wreck was just... something she did.
I stood there, fingers twisting together. Not from panic this time. From something else. Something that felt too big to name.
"Thank you," I managed.
It wasn't enough. The words felt too small for what she'd done.
But Laura just smiled.
"Don't mention it."
Laura's gaze drifted across the room, lingering on small details—the way the afternoon light hit the study room doorway, the worn armrest on the sofa, the faded pattern on the hall rug.
Her expression softened, something distant crossing her face. Her grey eyes moved slowly, taking in each corner like she was reading something written there that only she could see.
She was quiet for a moment, her mouth pressed in a thin line. Not sad, exactly. More like... remembering. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, her usual composed posture easing into something more natural, more unguarded.
Then she blinked, and whatever she'd been seeing seemed to fade. Her focus shifted back to the present—to the movers shuffling boxes, to the voices from the kitchen.
She turned to look at me, and that quieter smile returned. The distant look was gone, tucked away somewhere I couldn't reach.
"Come on," she said gently. "Let's see if your parents need help settling in."
My father noticed me finally—that I was inside. He came smiling towards me, his face bright with relief. Then he looked at Laura.
"Thank you for this lovely home."
She smiled and nodded. "It was a small gift from me. Considering what I'm getting out of this, it's not much in comparison." Her tone was measured, genuine. "I'll get a talented assistant and a wonderful mathematical genius."
My father blinked in surprise. "How..."
Laura reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out an envelope. Her movements were calm, deliberate.
"I know what you did for your daughter. You sacrificed your own goals to give Maggie a better future."
She held out the envelope to him. "It's remarkable, truly. Here—this is a recommendation letter for Lab 5, Third Division."
My father stood frozen, staring at the envelope as if it might vanish if he moved. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for it.
"They need someone like you—that exceptional precision with mathematical calculation," she added. "It's rare to find a mind so naturally tuned."
I watched his face—the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth opened slightly but no words came out. He looked at Laura, then at the envelope, then back at her again.
Mom had emerged from the kitchen, Sara behind her. They were both watching now, silent.
Dad's fingers closed around the envelope, still shaking.
The weight of it hung in the air—years of sacrifice, acknowledged. A future, offered back.
My father was an appreciative type. He accepted it with a nod and a quiet, "Thank you."
A moment passed. Dad held the envelope carefully, reverently. Mom's hand found his arm, squeezing gently.
Then Laura asked, "Do you guys need any help with settling in?"
My dad said, "It's okay. No furniture, we brought—only basic needs. We can manage."
Laura nodded, then said, "I know you both have a lot of questions, but take today to rest and settle in. We can talk about it tomorrow."
She turned to leave, moving toward the door. But she stopped halfway, turning back.
"Can I join you tomorrow for dinner?"
We all blinked in surprise.
She caught our stunned looks and her face softened, almost embarrassed.
"Whenever Maggie ate her homemade food, she seemed happy—no matter how rough her day was. I always wanted to see how it tasted."
The room went quiet for a beat. Mom blinked, caught off guard, her cheeks tinting slightly. I felt my own face heat up too. Laura must've realized it, because she cleared her throat quickly and smiled.
"So, it's a win-win for both of us," she said, her tone turning light again. "You'll get the answers you want, and I'll get a tasty meal out of it."
Mom smiled and nodded. Catching her eye, Dad said with a warm grin, "You don't have to ask. Come join us anytime."
Laura's smile widened—genuine, warm. Then she left, the door closing gently behind her.
Sara stood by the doorway, watching her go. She sighed—soft, almost inaudible. "She seems so lonely... without them."
Then she seemed to catch herself, realizing we'd heard. Her posture straightened, professional composure sliding back into place. She turned to the movers. "That box goes to the left bedroom—"
"Is everything okay?" my father asked, his voice gentle.
Sara paused. Her hands stilled. She looked at us—at Mom near the kitchen, at Dad still holding the envelope, at me standing in the hall.
"It was her mother's," she said softly. "From before the marriage. As Laura grew up, she started coming here too. When things got difficult. When she needed space." She paused. "She kept coming. Even as an adult. Until yesterday."
Her voice grew quieter. "Every corner of this house... it holds memories she can't forget."
A heavy silence lingered.
Mom stood near the kitchen doorway, her hand pressed to her chest. Dad was still holding the envelope, his eyes distant, processing.
I watched Sara move through the hall, continuing to direct the movers with quiet authority. She didn't look at us—gave us space to absorb what she'd said.
Lonely without them...
They aren't anymore...
The home suddenly felt different. The worn armrest, the faded rug, the way the light fell through the windows—it all meant something now. Something Laura had kept but couldn't live in.
And she'd given it to us.Could she really value us that much?