Chapter 2 — Winthrop Hall

Paylor

The sky outside the train window shifts from gray to a chalky blue as the hours stretch on, the sun’s reluctant descent painting the landscape in muted shades. Rolling hills, small towns with squat brick buildings, and the occasional burst of forest blur together like a hazy memory belonging to someone else. My stomach churns, a restless knot twisted with anxiety and the faintest flicker of something else. Hope? No, that feels too generous. Maybe it’s just the weight of leaving everything behind, the weight of not knowing what I’ll find ahead.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the train begins to slow. The conductor’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing Harvard station. My fingers tighten around the worn handle of my suitcase—it feels heavier now than it did this morning, like all the fears I’ve been trying to push aside have seeped into it. I’m not sure I’m ready. But then again, I wasn’t ready for anything that came before this, and yet here I am.

The platform is chaos. Students and families swarm around me, their laughter and shouts blending with the scrape of luggage wheels and the hiss of the departing train. I feel small, barely noticeable in my oversized sweater and scuffed boots. Nobody spares me a second glance, and for that, I’m grateful. Keeping my head down, I follow the flow of bodies toward the cabs.

The cab’s backseat cradles me like a cocoon when I finally slide in, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Winthrop Hall?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, my voice quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the engine. After a pause, I add, “It’s my first time here.”

He nods, his smile warm but unobtrusive. “Welcome to Cambridge. It’s a beautiful place, you know. Full of history. First time’s always exciting.”

His words settle uneasily in the pit of my stomach. Exciting doesn’t feel right, not with the weight pressing against my chest. I force a tight smile and turn my gaze to the window.

The ride is short but feels endless. The silence between us is heavy, broken only by the occasional squeak of the tires. Outside, the buildings grow taller and more ornate, their ivy-covered facades standing like sentinels of history. It’s beautiful in a way that feels almost oppressive, the kind of beauty that whispers you’ll never measure up. I glance down at my arms beneath the sleeves of my sweater, the scars hidden but ever-present. My fingers twitch against the fabric. I wonder if I’ll ever belong here—or if I’ll always feel like an outsider trying to slip through unnoticed.

When the cab finally pulls up to Winthrop Hall, I hesitate. The building looms before me, its stone facade weathered and imposing, the arched windows reflecting the fading light with a cold, indifferent gleam. My stomach twists again, sharper this time.

“Here you go,” the driver says, handing me my suitcase. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely carrying. He’s already driving off before I can force myself to move.

The lobby is alive with activity. Voices bounce off the wood-paneled walls, students weave around piles of boxes, and someone laughs loudly near the stairs. It’s too much—too noisy, too crowded. I keep my head down, clutching the handle of my suitcase like it’s a lifeline, and make my way toward the small desk at the far end where an older woman is handing out keys. Her practiced smile doesn’t falter as I approach, but the weight of her gaze makes me swallow hard.

“Name?”

“Paylor Bennett,” I say, the words steadier than I expect, though they sound foreign to my own ears.

She consults her list, picks up a key attached to a brass tag, and slides it across the counter. “Room 314. Third floor. Elevators are down that way.” She gestures vaguely behind her.

“Thank you.” I hesitate, then grip the key tightly, its cold weight grounding me as I step away.

The ride up is quiet. The faint hum of the elevator is almost soothing, a reprieve from the chaos below. When the doors slide open, I step into a narrow hallway lined with identical wooden doors. The faint scent of cleaning polish lingers in the air, mingling with something older—aged wood, maybe, or the ghost of lives lived before mine.

Finding my room near the end of the hall, I fumble with the key. The lock sticks for a moment, and panic flutters in my chest. But then it gives, the door swinging inward and the panic receding like a tide. The room is small, square, and empty, save for a bed with crisp white linens, a desk pushed against the far wall, and an empty bookshelf. A single window overlooks the campus, the glass faintly fogged with the evening chill.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

I set my suitcase down and take a deep breath, letting the stillness settle around me. My fingers graze the windowsill, the wood cool and smooth against my skin. Outside, lamplight flickers to life one by one, casting the cobblestone paths below in soft amber hues. Voices echo faintly in the distance—students laughing, calling out to one another. It feels like a different world, one I’m not sure I belong to yet.

I should unpack. My hands hover over the suitcase clasp, but something about it feels too final. Like opening it will cement the fact that I’m really here, that there’s no going back. My chest tightens as I pull my hands away. Not yet.

The silence presses in, no longer comforting but suffocating. My eyes land on the leather journal tucked into my bag, its worn edges catching the dim light. I reach for it but stop short, my fingers freezing mid-air. Writing feels too raw right now, too much like opening a door I’m not ready to face.

The library.

The thought emerges before I can stop it. My gaze shifts to the window, drawn to the faint silhouette of a tall, spired building in the distance. Ivy Hall Library. I remember the descriptions I’d read online, the pictures of its towering shelves and stained-glass windows. A place like that—quiet, anonymous—feels safer than this room with its oppressive stillness. My feet feel heavy as I stand, but the ache in me grows louder than the silence. I grab my bag and head for the door, locking it behind me.

The campus at night feels different. The lamplight pools on the cobblestones, shadows stretching and shifting with the wind. The air smells faintly of rain and damp earth, autumn settling in after the earlier storm. My boots scuff against the stones as I walk, my head down, until the library rises before me.

Ivy Hall is breathtaking, even more imposing up close. Its stained-glass windows glow faintly, the colors muted in the evening light. The heavy wooden doors creak as I push them open, the scent of aged paper and polished wood meeting me like an old friend. For the first time that day, something inside me unwinds.

The library is vast, its high ceilings disappearing into shadows above. Rows of shelves stretch endlessly, filled with everything from ancient tomes to pristine textbooks. The quiet is tangible, interrupted only by the faint rustle of turning pages. I wander aimlessly, letting the stillness seep into my bones, until I find a small alcove between two towering shelves. A vintage desk lamp casts its warm glow over a worn chair.

It’s perfect.

I sink into the chair, my bag resting at my feet. For the first time since stepping off the train, I feel myself exhale fully. The journal is heavy in my lap, the leather rough beneath my touch. I don’t open it. Not yet. Instead, my fingers trace its edges, the texture grounding me in the moment.

The library hums softly around me, its stillness a fragile comfort I hadn’t realized I needed. Outside, the world keeps turning, but here—here it’s quiet. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or if I’ll ever find a way to belong. But in this moment, in this quiet corner of a vast and unfamiliar place, I feel the faintest flicker of something I didn’t expect.

It’s not hope. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, it’s close enough.