I learned the news not from Élisabeth.
As with so many matters at the academy, the word reached me through the idle talk of others.
Two students in the library were discussing it in voices hushed enough to be deemed polite, yet loud enough to be overheard by anyone seated within proximity.
"Lady Armand is to be moved."
"Transferred? Where to?"
"Their family academy in the northern district."
I ceased my reading. For several seconds, I hoped I had misheard. Yet their conversation persisted.
"Her family never quite favoured the notion of her studying here."
I closed my book slowly. A curious sensation stirred within my chest—not entirely a shock, nor entirely a sorrow. It was more akin to something I had foreseen from the very beginning. Yet, it felt altogether different when the moment finally arrived.
That day, I did not see Élisabeth in class. Nor did I find her in the library. It was only towards evening, as the sun began its descent and the academy grounds grew still, that I saw her walking towards the small garden behind the astronomy building. The very place we often frequented when we sought to converse without the weight of prying eyes.
She appeared to be waiting for me. As I drew near, she offered a faint smile.
"I hoped you would come here."
"You know I frequent this place."
She nodded. The evening breeze moved softly through the trees. A few autumn leaves fell languidly to the earth.
We stood for a time in silence.
Finally, I spoke. "I heard something today."
Élisabeth did not seem surprised. "Regarding my departure?"
I nodded.
She gazed at the empty garden path.
"It seems the news has travelled swifter than I had anticipated."
"Is it true?"
"It is."
The answer was simple. Far too simple for something that felt so heavy. I did not immediately say anything more. A multitude of questions filled my mind, yet none felt appropriate to utter.
Élisabeth eventually spoke softly.
"My family always intended to move me to another academy."
"When?"
"In a few days."
A few days. I attempted to envision the academy without her.
The library without the chair she always chose. The corridors without the sound of her step. This garden without our conversations. Strangely, the prospect felt far more desolate than it ought to have.
Élisabeth observed me. "Have you nothing to say?"
"What should I say?"
She gave a quiet sigh. "I do not know."
We walked a few paces along the path. Then, she stopped.
"I wish to give you something."
She opened the small bag she carried and withdrew a slender volume. The cover was plain, bearing no title upon its front. She presented it to me.
"What is this?"
"A blank book."
I turned a few pages. Every one of them was entirely void.
"For what purpose?"
Élisabeth smiled slightly.
"I thought that someone who is always writing of the world ought to have a place to write of something more... personal."
I gazed at the book for a moment. "A parting gift?"
"No." She shook her head. "Merely a beginning."
I did not fully comprehend her meaning. Yet, as I closed the book, I noticed an inscription upon the first page in Élisabeth's hand:
For the things that cannot always be explained by numbers.
I stared at the words for several seconds. Then, I remarked, "You know I am not particularly adept at writing such things."
"I know." She looked at me with an expression of great tenderness. "That is precisely why I wish for you to try."
The wind stirred once more amongst the trees. For a time, we merely stood there in the stillness. Finally, Élisabeth spoke.
"I do not wish for this to be a true farewell."
I looked at her. "How do you mean?"
She reached into her bag again and produced an object. A pen. The very pen I had given her at that small bookshop.
"I still have it," she said, turning it in her hand. "You once said that a gift need not be of equal worth."
I remembered.
"We can write," she continued.
"Letters?"
She nodded. "If we cannot speak every day as we do now... we can still write."
I looked down at the empty book in my hand. For the first time since I had learned of her transfer, the weight in my chest felt a fraction lighter.
"Very well," I said at last.
Élisabeth smiled. Yet the smile was not entirely one of happiness. It was more like someone attempting to hold onto something that was slowly drifting away.
A few minutes later, her family carriage arrived at the academy gates. Before boarding, she turned to me once more.
"Adrian."
I looked at her.
"Do not wait too long before writing."
I nodded.
But as the carriage finally departed the academy grounds and slowly vanished into the city streets, I realised something I had never truly considered before.
That sometimes, distance does not commence with a grand farewell. Occasionally, it begins with something far smaller.
Like a promise to write. And the hope that words might suffice to replace a presence.