ALMS TO LOVE
The air was faintly scented with chalk, old books, and spectres of past essays. Morning sunlight streamed through high windows, light on long rectangles between the lines of hunched students over notebooks, laptop keys typing, pencils scratching. Fiona stood near the front of the room, dark curls contained, blouse taut at the waist, heels muffled on the wooden floor.
She clutched a dog-eared copy of The Yellow Wallpaper against her palm, pages covered in scribbles in numerous colors over the years of academic battles. Her voice sliced through morning quiet, firm, crisp, yet intimate—like she was sharing a secret she wouldn't share.
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