FRAMES OF FATE
Vérité Gallery — 10:00 A.M.
The hum of soft classical music floated through the small, elegant space of Vérité Gallery. Its
walls, painted in stark minimalist white, shimmered faintly beneath carefully arranged spotlights.
Each beam illuminated a canvas or sculpture, as though art itself had become sacred relics
displayed for worship.
The reception desk—glass-topped, discreetly tucked into the left-hand corner—seemed almost
invisible, a silent gatekeeper between the world of commerce and the sanctity of expression. A
vase of lilies sat upon it, their perfume mingling faintly with the smell of varnished wood and
fresh paint.
Esmeralda Koch sat toward the back of the gallery, posture upright but spirit sinking. She had
chosen her attire carefully, plain yet dignified—a soft cream blouse, a skirt with no
extravagance, her hair swept neatly into place. On the surface, she looked composed. But her
hands, clutching a résumé whose edges had grown weary and bent from too many interviews,
betrayed her. The faint smudges of ink along its border bore testimony to her repeated, futile. attempts.
It was her third week of trying. Three weeks of waiting in lobbies and smiling before strangers
who skimmed her qualifications only to dismiss her with polite cruelty. She could feel the ache of
failure pooling in her chest, as if rejection itself had weight.
Ten other hopefuls lingered in the room, shifting in their seats with nerves barely hidden. A
chorus of shallow breaths filled the silence between movements of the music. Everyone's eyes
rested on the same door.
At last, it opened.
The manager emerged, smiling broadly, and beside him walked a man radiant with relief, his
hand still in a grateful shake. The decision had been made.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the manager declared, "thank you all for your time. We've found the
right candidate."
The chosen one practically glowed as he followed the manager forward. The other applicants
slumped, shoulders collapsing beneath invisible burdens. Esmeralda rose, heart hammering.
This was her moment to plead.
"Sir—please," she said, clutching the résumé with both hands as though it might shield her.
"Would you look again?"
The manager paused, a trace of regret in his eyes. "Miss Koch." He tapped the paper with two
fingers. "You are exceptional, but overqualified. This role cannot contain what you bring. I mean
that as a compliment."
Her hands slackened. The résumé slipped from her grasp and fell with a hollow sound against
the marble floor. Something within her caved.
Her knees buckled before she could stop herself. She sank to the ground, clutching the
manager's leg with a desperation that startled even her. "Please," she whispered, her voice
breaking. "I'll take anything. I cannot keep going home empty-handed."
The music continued to play, cruel in its indifference. Around her, the other candidates turned
away, pretending to study the artwork, unwilling to bear witness to her humiliation.
The manager shifted awkwardly, clearly unsettled, but still unmoved.
It was then the steady sound of heels clicking across tile cut through the stillness.Calithea Cappel had arrived, her presence sharp and unmissable, like a blade glinting in the
light. She came not for people but for art—her eyes, precise and discerning, scanned the
gallery's displays with cool intent. She might have passed through unnoticed, save for the sound
of Esmeralda's broken sobs.
Her gaze flicked toward the scene. She stopped.
There, on the ground, a woman knelt in tears, her résumé abandoned on the floor, desperation
etched across her face. For a fleeting moment, Calithea considered walking on. This was not
her concern. Yet something—perhaps the sheer rawness of the sight—stilled her.
She bent and picked up the discarded sheet. Her eyes traveled down the page.
"Esmeralda Koch," she read aloud, her voice low but commanding.
Esmeralda froze, lifting her tear-stained face to meet the stranger's eyes.
Calithea crouched gracefully, her tone carrying both firmness and a faint undertone of
compassion. "Bring this to Aurum Realty tomorrow morning.Nine A.M. sharp."
She pressed the résumé back into Esmeralda's trembling hands. A flicker of a smile touched her
lips, but her voice was fierce, leaving no room for hesitation. Then she rose, her figure tall, her
heels clicking again as she crossed to the reception desk, the lilies perfuming her departure.
Esmeralda remained kneeling, stunned into stillness, clutching the résumé as though it were not
paper but salvation itself. The manager cleared his throat, muttered something about moving
on, and disappeared into his office once more.
The room exhaled, but Esmeralda could not.
---
When she finally forced herself to stand, her legs trembled. The eyes of the other applicants
grazed over her—some pitying, some quietly scornful, none kind. Heat flooded her cheeks.
Shame clung to her like a second skin.
She clutched the résumé so tightly the paper creased against her palm. What would her parents
say if they had seen her on her knees like that? What would she say of herself, if she could step
outside and judge?
You begged, the thought hissed. You held a man's leg like a beggar in the street.But beneath the sharp burn of humiliation flickered a strange, unyielding spark: Calithea's voice,
firm and unwavering. Nine A.M. sharp.
Esmeralda stepped out of the gallery into the late-morning city. The air was brisk, the street alive
with footsteps and voices, the indifference of a world that neither knew nor cared that she had
just lost and gained everything in the same hour.
She stood on the sidewalk a moment, her hands still trembling, her heart still racing. Then she
drew a breath, straightened her back, and began to walk.
The shame would linger. But so would the promise.
---
University of Georgia:
Faculty of law Library — Same Day, Later
The library was a sanctuary of silence, broken only by the rustle of pages and the scratch of
pens. Afternoon light poured in through tall windows, painting golden stripes across long oak
tables and casting halos on the spines of well-worn books.
Ophelia Dormer sat alone in a corner, leaning over a heavy text. She was only in her second
year, and already the weight of law pressed down on her shoulders like a boulder. Her lips
moved silently, rehearsing phrases that refused to yield sense. Frustration swirled in her chest,
but she bit it back, determined not to let the material win.
From across the room, Hyacinth Koch noticed her. A final-year student, he had come here to
prepare for his own coursework, but the sight of her furrowed brow caught him. Something
about the quiet determination—and the storm beneath it—drew him in.
He gathered his books and made his way over, his footsteps soft against the polished floor.
Sliding into the chair beside her, he spoke in a low voice that didn't disturb the silence.
"Careful," he said, lips curving faintly. "If you keep glaring like that, the page might burst into
flames."
Ophelia blinked at him, startled. Then, recovering, she tilted her chin up. "I wasn't glaring. I was
thinking."
"Thinking yourself in circles?" He leaned over slightly, scanning the dense paragraph she'd been
stuck on. With easy confidence, he reached for her pen and jotted a few notes in the margin.His handwriting was sharp, neat—methodical.
She studied his face as he wrote, noticing the steadiness in his expression, the way his eyes
moved as though the words were familiar terrain.
"You make it look easy," she said reluctantly.
Hyacinth handed her the paper back. "Law is easy. People just make it complicated."
Their hands brushed as she took it. Neither of them pulled away quickly. A subtle warmth
lingered where their fingers met, surprising them both.
Ophelia narrowed her eyes, though the corner of her lips betrayed the faintest smile. "And you
are…?"
"Hyacinth. Final year." He extended his hand briefly, then lowered it again, mindful of the
silence.
"Ophelia Dormer. Second year." She hesitated before adding, "Thank you, I suppose."
"You're welcome. I suppose." The smirk softened into something gentler, almost curious.
They returned to their books, yet the air between them had shifted. What had begun as a
chance encounter now carried a quiet charge, a recognition neither fully understood but neither
wished to dismiss.
In the vast quiet of the library, surrounded by hundreds of unread words, it felt oddly as though
they had just read the beginning of something neither had planned.