Morning comes soft and gold.
For the first time in years, I wake without an alarm. The sunlight spills through the window, catching on the dust in the air, painting it all like a dream. My graduation uniform hangs neatly by the chair, still smelling faintly of starch and rain. I stare at it for a while before moving.
There's a heaviness in my chest—not sadness, not excitement, just that strange pressure that comes when something's ending. I've felt it before: the day I left the orphanage, the day Herr Varren closed the shop for good. It's the quiet sound of doors closing somewhere far behind me.
I wash up, comb my hair, and study my reflection. I don't look much like the boy who used to sit by the window counting raindrops. The same eyes, maybe, but harder to read now. The rest is worn thin by long nights and too many questions without answers.
Still, I smile. Today isn't for doubts. Today's a full stop on one story and, maybe, the first line of another.
---
The campus is alive when I arrive—banners strung between the arches, laughter echoing off stone walls. Students hurry past in their robes, arms full of books and certificates, faces lit by relief. Professors shake hands, assistants shout names, and camera flashes catch the morning light.
I move through it all like a ghost. No family waiting in the crowd, no bouquet in my hands, no one calling my name. Just the hum of life around me.
The ceremony itself is a blur—long speeches, polite applause, the rustle of parchment. When my name is finally called, I step forward, take the certificate, and bow. The dean's handshake is firm and brief, his eyes already moving to the next student.
That's fine. I'm used to being one among many.
When it's over, I walk out to the courtyard and stand beneath the old willow tree by the fountain. The same spot where I used to eat lunch when I couldn't afford the cafeteria. The grass is brighter now, the fountain newly cleaned, but the sound of water hasn't changed. It never does.
I pull out my journal and write just one line.
"Graduated. Still trying."
Then I close it and tuck it away.
---
Lily finds me there.
She looks radiant in the sun, her robe slightly too big, her smile effortless as ever. "You disappeared right after the ceremony," she says, mock-scolding. "I almost thought you'd left."
"Just wanted some air," I reply.
"Air?" She laughs softly. "You and your solitude, Ethan Black."
We talk for a while—small things, light things. Her parents are waiting at the gate; they want pictures. She asks if I'll join, but I shake my head. I tell her I promised to meet an old friend later.
It's a lie, but a gentle one.
Before she goes, she reaches into her satchel and hands me a folded note. "Don't read it now," she says. "When you're on your way home."
Then she's gone—swallowed by the crowd, her laughter carried by the wind.
I slip the note into my pocket beside the wooden coin and watch the fountain shimmer until the courtyard empties.
---
The afternoon drifts by slowly. I wander through the city one last time, past the bookshop that still smells of dust and ink, past the street vendors selling roasted nuts, past the bridge where moonlight once kept me company.
Everything feels both familiar and foreign, like a photograph that's been left too long in the sun.
Children chase each other down the cobblestones, a couple argues near the tram stop, and an old man feeds pigeons with trembling hands. Life goes on, with or without names carved into it.
When evening comes, I stop at a small café I've never entered before. The owner barely looks up as I order tea. I sit by the window, sip slowly, and watch the world blur outside. The city glows—warm, tired, alive.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if my parents ever dreamed of me growing up like this—quiet, invisible, but still moving forward.
Maybe that's enough.
---
As night falls, the streets grow emptier. Lanterns flicker to life, one by one, until the whole district hums with soft light. I pull my coat tighter and start walking toward the outskirts, where the road bends toward the river and the sky opens wider.
The note from Lily burns in my pocket. Curiosity finally wins. I stop beneath a streetlamp and unfold it.
Her handwriting is neat, every word carefully shaped.
> You once told me you didn't know where you belonged. Maybe that's the point, Ethan. Maybe you're meant to find places, not belong to them. Wherever you end up, I hope you keep wondering. The world needs people who do.
— L.
I read it twice, then fold it gently and slip it back into my pocket beside the coin. Two small tokens from two different worlds—one of childhood, one of what might have been.
The night air smells of river salt and rain. I tilt my head back and look at the stars scattered across the sky like pieces of glass. For a second, it feels like they're watching back.
---
As I reach the bridge, I pause.
The same bridge I crossed so many times—carrying letters, books, dreams too fragile to speak aloud. Tonight, it feels heavier somehow. The kind of heaviness that comes when something unseen is about to shift.
I lean on the railing, listening to the murmur of water below. A carriage passes behind me, wheels clattering on stone, and then there's silence again.
I close my eyes.
In the quiet, I hear echoes—the laughter of children from the orphanage, the scratch of Herr Varren's pen, Sister Maren's voice telling me not to let the world harden me. I hear my own younger self asking questions no one ever answered.
What happens to people who are forgotten?
Do stories still exist when no one remembers them?
The wind answers with a whisper.
I smile faintly. Maybe the world isn't waiting for answers. Maybe it's just waiting for someone to keep asking.
---
The clock tower strikes ten in the distance. I take one last look at the city—the soft lights, the fading laughter, the endless motion of lives colliding and parting.
My heart feels strangely light.
Tomorrow, I'll find a small place to rent. Maybe the letter from the university about assistant work will arrive soon. Maybe not. Either way, I'll keep moving.
That's all I've ever known how to do.
I turn from the bridge and start walking toward home, the river murmuring behind me, the stars fading above. The road ahead is long, quiet, and familiar.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath all the calm, something stirs—small, silent, waiting.
I don't notice. I just walk.
Step by step.
Into tomorrow.