Six months later, it had all settled into something quiet.

I was walking the gardens behind the house, the air full of jasmine and damp earth, when I found Clara sitting on a bench under the old magnolia tree.

She wasn’t in uniform anymore — a plain cream sundress, a thick textbook open on her lap.

I’d offered to pay her university tuition outright. She refused it flatly. She let me write a letter of recommendation for a scholarship, and insisted on earning the rest herself.

She looked up and shaded her eyes. “You look peaceful today, Mr. Adrian.”

“I am,” I said. “And it’s just Adrian.”