St. Thomas College of Arts and Science
Morning | Apology and AftermathClara Thomson barreled toward St. Thomas College, her backpack bouncing, damp hair swinging, and those jingling clips clinking with every step, the red rose still clutched in her hand. She was late—again—but her mind was fixed on one thing: finding the guy from the dark room to apologize. As she neared the lecture hall, she spotted Professor Martin Luther striding in, his tweed jacket and booming voice unmistakable. She slowed, catching her breath, and muttered to herself, "Poor thing, even if I'm late, he won't say a word. Too kind for his own good.
"But class could wait. "Right now, the most important thing is saying sorry to that person in the dark," she whispered, her resolve firm.
Clutching the rose and a folded note she'd scribbled on the bus—"I am sorry"—she veered away from the lecture hall, sprinting toward the stairwell that led to the fourth floor. Her heart raced as she prayed, "God, please let him be there.
"The fourth floor was as eerie as before, the hallway dim and silent, the air heavy with dust. Clara reached the window near the dark room, her breath hitching. Steeling herself, she called softly, "Hello?"
A voice snapped from inside, sharp and angry. "You came again? How dare you?" Matt stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor, and stormed toward the door, his silhouette looming in the dim light.
Clara's eyes widened, but she didn't back down. "Please, see the window!" she blurted, her voice trembling but earnest.
Before he could reach the door, she placed the note and rose on the windowsill and bolted, her jingling clips echoing down the hall. As she ran, her red knee-length frock caught the faint light, a fleeting blur Matt vaguely glimpsed through the hallway's shadows.
Matt burst out, catching the clinking sound and the vague flash of red frock vanishing around the corner. "That damn jingle," he muttered, his anger mixed with curiosity. He stepped to the window, spotting the folded note and the vibrant red rose, its scent soft in the stale air.
He unfolded the paper, reading the simple words: I am sorry.
He stood frozen, the rose in one hand, the note in the other, his irritation stirred by a flicker of surprise at her boldness.
Clara, still catching her breath, hurried back to the lecture hall, her mission accomplished but her lateness now undeniable.
She peeked inside, where Martin Luther was already mid-lecture, his voice booming about Renaissance art.
She straightened her red frock, tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, and called out coolly, "May I come in, sir?
"Martin Luther turned, his face darkening with anger. "Clara Thomson, late again?" he barked, his usual warmth replaced by irritation.
"This is unacceptable! You think you can waltz in whenever you please? Stay out!"Clara's cheeks flushed, but she kept her composure, standing at the door.
From inside, Dana caught her eye, flashing a mocking smile that made Clara's irritation spike.
She crossed her arms, refusing to budge, which only drew Martin Luther's attention again. "Move aside, Thomson!" he shouted, pointing to the hallway.
Clara, fuming, stepped to the side, muttering under her breath like a petulant child, "This Martin Luther, hmm, I don't like him. Thinks he's some big shot." She leaned against the wall, her jingling clips clinking faintly, her mind still half on the dark room and the boy she'd just apologized to.
Meanwhile, Matt, still clutching the note and rose, made his way to his own class. He entered a lecture hall where Professor Johnson was droning on about calculus, his chalk scratching the board. Scanning the room, Matt noticed Adrian and Lucas were absent, as expected.
"Canteen," he muttered, knowing exactly where his friends would be. He slipped out, the note and rose still in his hand, and headed to the bustling canteen.
At a corner table littered with soda cans and chip bags, Adrian and Lucas were lounging, trading jabs about the birthday prank.
They spotted Matt approaching, his expression a mix of brooding and agitation. Lucas's eyes zeroed in on the red rose and folded note in Matt's hand. Before Matt could sit, Lucas snatched them, unfolding the note with a grin.
"Haa, red flower, note—what's this? I am sorry? Yo, Grayson, you seen this girl?"
Matt shook his head, his voice flat. "No.""Any clues?
"Lucas pressed, his playboy smirk widening, already intrigued by the chase.
Matt shrugged, tossing the note onto the table. "Red knee-length frock, jingling clips. That's it."Adrian raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "A clip? Why are you so hung up on that clip? How's a clip supposed to be someone's uniqueness?
"Matt scowled, leaning back. "Haa, I don't know. Anyway, I don't care about some girl.
"Lucas cut in, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Matt, wait. With these clues, we're finding that girl today. You just wait here—we'll bring her." He grabbed Adrian's arm, practically dragging him out of the canteen before Matt could protest.
As they hustled through the courtyard, Adrian shook his head, exasperated. "Lucas, you fool, it's class time right now. How's it possible to find her?"Lucas froze, his grin faltering. "Yeah… I didn't think about that.
"Adrian smacked his shoulder, scolding, "You and your big ideas. Think before you drag us on a wild goose chase!"
They continued walking, Lucas undeterred, his eyes scanning the hallways as they passed the economics section.
Suddenly, a faint jingle cut through the air. Both froze, heads snapping toward the sound. There, standing in front of a classroom, was a girl with damp hair, her red knee-length frock swaying slightly, the telltale jingling clips catching the light. They couldn't see her face—she was turned away, leaning against the wall—but the clips were unmistakable.
Lucas nudged Adrian, whispering, "That's her. Jingle Girl."Adrian nodded, his skepticism fading. They moved toward her, steps quickening, the chase now real.
To be continued…