The next morning arrived without fanfare—soft light creeping through half-closed blinds, the air in Archie's dorm room thick with the kind of stillness that only exists before the day begins in earnest. Outside the window, the world yawned awake in shades of gray and gold. Thornbridge campus looked almost peaceful. Almost.
Archie sat on the edge of his bed, a mug of lukewarm tea cupped in both hands, the steam curling up toward his face like a quiet offering. Elliot had already left for his 8 a.m. class, his half of the room in its usual state of "organized panic." A single sock lay draped over the desk lamp, as if it had given up mid-escape.
Archie stared into his tea like it might offer answers.
The first day of classes had passed in a blur—psychology lectures, too many hallway introductions, and Anne, all laughter and caffeine, orbiting his quiet like a tiny, benevolent moon. He didn't know why she'd picked him to latch onto, but he wasn't exactly complaining. Her presence had a way of anchoring him, even when the rest of the world still felt like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
At 9:03, his phone buzzed.
[Anne]
if you don't meet me at the quad in 7 minutes i will declare a public friendship annulment and make a very dramatic scene
Archie sighed. Smiled. Pulled on a hoodie that probably wasn't his.
—
The quad was alive, a noisy sprawl of students lounging on the grass, tossing frisbees, arguing over Shakespeare quotes, and pretending to study. The morning was crisp and smelled faintly of grass, coffee, and the distant promise of food trucks.
Anne sat cross-legged under a birch tree, a bagel in one hand and an iced coffee in the other like she was summoning breakfast gods.
"You're late," she said, squinting up at him.
"It's 9:10."
"And yet, I have been forced to eat this entire bagel alone like a sad woodland creature."
He sat beside her, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. "I'm sure the squirrels were impressed."
"Oh, the squirrels revere me," she said solemnly. "I'm their queen."
They talked for a while. About nothing, and somehow everything. Anne didn't ask him questions like the others did—she didn't poke or prod at his memory, didn't treat him like a project. Instead, she told stories. Long, meandering tales about her high school debates, the time she got locked inside a bookstore overnight, or how her childhood pet turtle ran away (which, Archie noted, seemed like a physical impossibility).
He laughed more than he had in months. Maybe years.
As students came and went, Anne pointed out a few of the other dorm residents from the other building.
"That's Jin, the guy who plays the violin like he's in the middle of a cinematic heartbreak. Don't let the beanie fool you—he's got drama in his soul."
"Zara—she's in pre-law. She will either be president or take down the president. TBD."
"And that's Felix. He's... working on some kind of experimental art project involving moss. No further questions."
Archie nodded, quietly memorizing names and faces. There was a strange warmth in knowing he wasn't alone in this peculiar little corner of the world. A handful of students, all with their own quirks and stories, orbiting the same floor like mismatched satellites.
—
That night, Archie couldn't sleep.
The dorm was quiet—too quiet, the kind that magnified every creak of the building and every stray thought in his mind. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the shadows above shifting like thoughts just out of reach.
And then, it happened.
Not a dream, exactly. More like a sensation. A flicker.
He saw a hallway. Dimly lit. Yellow wallpaper. A smell—warm, something sweet, maybe vanilla or cinnamon. There was a door. Half-open. And someone was waiting inside.
A man. Just the outline of one. Standing at the window.
Archie couldn't see his face, but he felt something at the core of it—something like recognition, like grief wrapped in silk. His chest tightened. His breath caught in his throat.
Then—gone.
He sat up, heart pounding, the room now impossibly silent. Just the hum of Elliot's fan and the distant tick of a wall clock.
Archie ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
That image... it didn't come from nowhere.
He didn't have answers. Not yet.
But for the first time since waking in that sterile hospital room, he had a thread—fragile, shimmering, waiting to be followed.
He lay back down, eyes wide open, the outline of the dream burned into the darkness.
And somewhere, on the floor above, someone started playing a violin—soft, mournful, and hauntingly beautiful.