Hope, I discovered, is a terrifyingly fragile thing. The morning after Helen Chapman's email, I woke up with a jolt, the reality of the upcoming interview hitting me with the force of a physical blow. The initial relief had evaporated overnight, leaving behind a thick residue of pure, unadulterated panic. I had an interview. I had a specific day and time. Which meant I actually had to go. I had to sit in a room with a stranger and convince them I was worthy.
The first, and most immediate, hurdle presented itself in the form of my closet. A simple wooden wardrobe that had suddenly transformed into a mausoleum of my former life. What does a person who is trying to invent herself from scratch wear to a job interview?
I slid the door open and was met with a chorus of ghosts. There was the floral dress Sera had convinced me to buy, insisting it made me look "less like a sad librarian." There was the oversized, comfortable gray sweater I'd practically lived in for months, my unofficial uniform as a background character. There were jeans, band t-shirts, and a single, lonely blazer. It was a collection of costumes for roles I no longer wanted to play.
My hand brushed against a silk blouse, a deep shade of emerald green. I pulled it out. The memory attached to it was instant and sharp. It was from a university awards dinner a year ago. I had won a small scholarship for my design work. I had wanted to wear a simple black dress, but Sera had insisted I wear this blouse, which was actually hers. "You need to look the part, Ellie," she'd said, fixing the collar. "You have to shine."
But at the dinner, she was the one who shone. She knew half the people there, her laughter echoing through the hall, while I stood awkwardly by the refreshments table, clutching a plastic cup of punch. The blouse had felt like a borrowed skin then, and it felt like one now. I shoved it back into the darkness of the closet. I couldn't wear her confidence. I had to find my own.
Frustrated, I turned away from the wardrobe and back to my laptop. If I couldn't control my appearance, I could at least control my preparation. I opened the browser and typed in "Blackwood Press."
I spent the next two hours falling down a rabbit hole of research. Blackwood Press wasn't one of the giant, corporate publishing houses. They were a smaller, independent press with a reputation for publishing literary fiction and poetry. Their book covers, displayed proudly on their website, were stunning. They weren't loud or commercial; they were pieces of art. Minimalist, thoughtful, and elegant. They used typography in ways that were both classic and innovative. They were, in a word, beautiful.
A flicker of genuine excitement ignited in my chest. This wasn't just a job. This was a place where the work I loved to do was clearly valued. This was a place where the architect, not just the marketer, was celebrated.
I dug deeper, searching for Helen Chapman. I found her professional profile on a design networking site. It included a short bio and a link to her personal portfolio. Her design philosophy was summed up in a single sentence: "Good design is quiet. It doesn't scream for attention; it earns it through clarity and purpose."
The words resonated so deeply they felt like they'd been plucked from my own heart. That was what I believed. That was what I had tried to achieve with my community library project—clarity and purpose. For the first time, I felt a sense of alignment, a feeling that I wasn't just a desperate applicant trying to fit in, but a designer who might have actually found her people.
With this newfound perspective, I returned to the closet. My mission was different now. I wasn't looking for an outfit that would make me look like Sera, or like a generic "young professional." I was looking for an outfit that Helen Chapman would respect. An outfit that reflected quiet confidence.
My eyes scanned past the trendy pieces and the comfortable clutter. They landed on a simple, high-necked black sheath dress I had bought for a family function and forgotten about. It was modest and unassuming. By itself, it was forgettable. But then I saw the blazer hanging next to it. It was well-structured, charcoal gray, with clean lines. I pulled them both out and laid them on the bed. Black dress, gray blazer. Simple. Uncomplicated. Strong.
It was the architectural equivalent of an outfit. It wasn't begging for attention. It suggested it had a purpose. It felt… like me. Or at least, like the version of me I wanted to be.
The night before the interview, I laid the outfit out carefully on a chair. My printed resume was in a clean folder on the table. My portfolio was polished and loaded onto a tablet. My notes on Blackwood Press were stacked neatly beside it.
I caught my reflection in the dark glass of the apartment window. For a split second, I saw the familiar, haunted girl. But I looked longer, forcing myself to see past the grief. I saw the quiet determination in her eyes. I saw the person who had designed a library, survived a heartbreak, and was now preparing to fight for her future.
The panic hadn't vanished completely. It was still there, a low hum beneath the surface. But it was overshadowed by a fragile, steely sense of readiness. Tomorrow, I would walk into that building, not as Seraphina's shadow, not as a beta, but as Elara Finch. And I would let my work speak for itself. Quietly.