Lena had always been the one who waited.
Not out of patience. Out of necessity.
Her mother used to say she was born old—quiet in the crib, watching the room like she already knew the rules weren't fair. By fourteen she was the one balancing the checkbook when her mom worked doubles at the diner. By seventeen she was the one calling creditors to explain late payments while her friends posted prom photos. By nineteen she was the one clocking out at 2 a.m. from the 24-hour pharmacy, smelling like antiseptic and regret, knowing college was a luxury she couldn't touch yet.
She didn't resent it. Resentment was for people who still expected life to apologize. Lena just adapted. She saved every paycheck, lived in the same small apartment above the laundromat her mom rented, ate ramen more nights than she cared to count. Gap years weren't a choice; they were survival.
The turning point came in the summer of 2025.
Her mother's health had been slipping for years—high blood pressure, bad knees, exhaustion that never quite lifted. One night in June, after a particularly long shift, her mom collapsed in the kitchen. Not dramatic. Just quiet. One minute standing at the sink, the next on the floor, breathing shallow.
The hospital stay was short but expensive. Tests, scans, prescriptions Lena couldn't pronounce. The doctor's words were kind but clear: rest, less stress, better food, regular check-ups. None of which were possible on diner wages and pharmacy overtime.
That was the night Lena decided.
She applied to the state university the next week—late admission, transfer credits from the community college classes she'd squeezed in online during breaks. Acceptance letter came in August. Financial aid package was thin but enough. She moved into the dorm in late September 2025, twenty-one years old, carrying two suitcases and a lifetime of quiet decisions.
Freshman year felt like stepping into someone else's movie.
The other girls on her floor were eighteen, loud, posting TikToks of dorm decorations and frat invites. They called her "the adult" with half-admiration, half-pity. She smiled, nodded, kept her door closed most nights. She went to classes, took meticulous notes, worked ten hours a week at the campus library reshelving books. She didn't party. Didn't date. Didn't complain.
But the quiet accumulated.
By February 2026, the second semester of her first year, Lena felt like she was living in grayscale. Classes were fine. Grades were solid. The future looked stable—psychology major, maybe counseling, maybe HR, something practical that paid bills and didn't ask for dreams. Yet every night she lay in the narrow bed listening to her roommate's breathing and felt the same hollow ache she'd carried since she was fourteen.
She needed something. Not friends. Not parties. Something to remind her she could still feel more than duty.
That Friday afternoon, February 6, she skipped the freshman mixer her roommate had begged her to attend. Mixers were for people who still believed in fresh starts. Lena preferred solitude and secondhand books.
The used bookstore was two blocks off the main quad, tucked between a coffee shop and a laundromat that smelled faintly of bleach. The bell above the door jingled when she entered. Warm air hit her face, laced with dust and old paper. She exhaled, shoulders loosening for the first time all week.
She needed the Intro to Psych textbook for next week's module. New ones were $150. Used ones were usually under ten. She headed straight for the back aisle.
The shelf was half-empty, spines leaning like tired soldiers. She scanned quickly—nothing. Then lower, bottom row, a gray cover caught her eye. Intro to Psych, 10th edition. Cover creased, edges worn soft. $4.99 sticker curling at one corner.
She pulled it out.
Standard stuff inside at first: brain diagrams, highlighted definitions, some doodles in the corners. She flipped faster.
Then the margins.
Tight, slanted handwriting started small, almost careful.
"September 8, 2016. First week. Everyone seems to know where they're going. I don't. Sat in the back of lecture. She was three rows ahead. Didn't turn around. Probably never will."
Lena paused.
The words felt… personal. Not notes. Confessions.
She turned the page.
Another entry. Looser. More urgent.
"Windy today. She walked past the fountain. Black coat, red scarf loose. Didn't look over. Not once."
Then the handwriting burst open:
"Man each time the wind blows I feel the rave of my heart and my pulse becomes slow in that time frame the pulse of my heart is felt like a heavy bass beat and the flow of blood through my vein is felt just as sensitive as a light touch on my skin the flow of wind on her hair is similar to the blossom of a flower and the glow on her skin when the sun touches it similar to a diamond just throughly I met gods own creation"
Heat rose in Lena's cheeks. She glanced around the aisle—empty. No one to see her standing there, thumb pressed to the page, breathing a little too shallow.
Another line, squeezed into the margin in smaller, colder script:
"Saw her again today. Same coat. Same scarf. Walked right by. Didn't even slow down. Whatever."
The drop from worship to invisibility was brutal. Lena felt it in her own chest, a small, sharp echo of every time she'd smiled politely while someone looked right through her.
She closed the book. Held it against her ribs.
She should put it back. Buy a clean copy. Keep things simple.
Instead she carried it to the counter.
The clerk—older guy, beard streaked gray—scanned it without looking up. "Four ninety-nine."
She paid cash. Tucked the book into her bag.
Outside, February wind cut through her coat. Campus lights glowed gold against the early dark. She walked faster than usual, boots crunching slush, the book thumping against her hip.
In her dorm room she locked the door. Roommate was at the mixer. Silence wrapped around her like a blanket.
She sat on the bed, pulled the lamp chain. Warm yellow light spilled across the cover.
She opened to the first page.
And let someone else's ghost in.