Zola left home for the first time.
Sitting in the airport departure hall, she didn't really realize this. She only felt like a piece of luggage that had been checked onto a plane, not a person with moods, a past, or anyone to miss her. She told herself: It's only three years. But time, in that moment, turned into a blank white wall. She didn't know where it began, or where it was supposed to lead.
Only after she boarded did she feel the world actually start to move away from her. The plane taxied, paused, picked up speed. At the moment it lifted off, her stomach was pressed down and she felt a little sick—not the kind of nausea that comes from the body, but a dizziness that came from having her life stirred up and poured somewhere new.
It took more than ten hours to fly from Country C to Country Y.
On the plane, time lost its shape. What was left was a slow, almost torturous stretch.
Zola sat by the window, looking at the clouds. The clouds were so clean, they looked like rooms no one had ever lived in. But the more she looked, the more uneasy she felt.
When the airplane meal came, she hesitated. The packaging looked delicate, but when she opened it, the steam that rose carried that cold, standardized smell—no fragrance, no temptation, just a forced permission to go on living. She took a few bites, salty and then oddly bland, but the more accurate way to put it was: she couldn't taste anything. She tried a sip of orange juice. It was sour and a little astringent, which only made her feel worse. She leaned back in her seat, a faint wave of nausea rolling in her chest.
It felt as if her future was being shipped off to a place she wasn't ready to receive.
She turned on the little screen on the seat in front of her. It lit up with English subtitles and a rhythm of language she wasn't fully used to. She picked a movie at random, one she'd heard people talk about before, the kind that got called "freedom," "growing up," "destiny" in reviews. She watched for less than ten minutes and started to feel dizzy. The language, the scenes, the jokes—everything felt like a world behind glass. She could see it, but she couldn't get in.
Strangely, beneath the dizziness there was a thin thread of anticipation.
Like a child standing outside a door, too scared to push it open, and yet dying to know if the room on the other side might be brighter than home, wider than the past.
She tried to sleep, but no matter how she adjusted the seat, she couldn't get comfortable. She closed her eyes, opened them, closed them again. The air from the vent blew on the exact same spot the whole time, cold with an almost professional seriousness. She didn't know how long she slept. She only knew that when she woke up, the light outside had changed—from thick black night to a pale, undecided morning.
She looked out the window. The clouds seemed to have changed shape.
Like herself—the same person, already shifting on the way.
When the plane touched down, she finally understood: she had arrived in a place that had nothing to do with her. The air carried a strange damp cold that slid into her nose like an unopened pill. The language, the signs, the streets, the light—none of it was hers. She felt like a chess piece that had been moved mid-game. The world went on exactly as before. Only her position had changed.
The room was one she had chosen herself, not something assigned by the university. On the form, she'd clicked "single room" with a kind of natural confidence—as if she had always been used to living alone and to other people keeping their hands off her life.
When she opened the door, there was a second of weightlessness.
The room was completely empty, clean enough to make her blink. White walls, grey curtains, light wood floors. Everything modern, orderly, with a quiet sense of expense—not luxury, but a lifestyle that had been carefully designed. The bed was against the wall. The bedside lamp was on, a warm yellow with a soft focus, like a hotel. Or a show flat.
She noticed that with the light on, there wasn't a speck of dust—not even in the corners. This kind of cleanliness came from hard work. The dorm's cleaning was clearly very thorough.
The desk was by the window. The grain of the wood had been deliberately kept visible—nothing flashy, but it insisted on being noticed. Zola ran her fingers lightly across the surface. No dust, no fingerprints. The cleanness made her a little dazed.
She suddenly thought of the day they moved into the villa when she was small. The same kind of tidy unfamiliarity that refused to produce any real emotion. Spaces like this weren't waiting for her; they were waiting for "someone worthy enough to match them."
The bookcase was tall and empty, but in no hurry to be filled.
It had the calm of something that didn't treat time as a problem—as if it knew that, eventually, someone would put a future into it.
Zola could already picture herself slowly filling it, one shelf at a time.
The bathroom was en suite. The counter was made of engineered stone, polished enough to reflect her blurred silhouette. She looked at that shadow for a second—as if watching another person who'd just been pushed to the front of the stage and hadn't had time to read the script.
The TV hung opposite the bed, its screen black. Not cold, exactly. More like the kind of silence that waits for you to decide when to turn it on. That silence made her suddenly realize—no one here would decide what she watched or when to turn it off.
She sat down on the bed. The mattress was soft, but there was distance in it. It wasn't unwelcoming; it was observing her instead, as if asking: What are you going to turn yourself into?
She lowered her head and breathed slowly.
It wasn't anxiety, not really. It was a slight, trembling excitement—as if she were standing on the threshold of a new world, knowing that one more step and nothing would ever go back to the way it was. She wasn't afraid of being alone. She'd been used to that for a long time. What made her shiver, just a little, was the first clear knowledge that this space belonged to her because—she had chosen it. She had arrived. It was the future she was about to become.
In that moment, she felt nervous and proud, with a small, secret slice of happiness.
A feeling only people who have left home understand—freedom with an edge, the future with a shine. And for the first time, she thought she might deserve it.
When she woke up, she realized she had to buy things to live with. She checked the map, but no matter how long she stared, it looked like a meaningless sketch. When she walked out, she felt like a toddler. The legs were hers, but she didn't entirely trust them.
The bus came. She fumbled for cash. The driver gave her a look, surprised and impatient, as if she'd tried to pay in seashells. Her ears burned. She heard someone in line behind her sigh softly. She couldn't even tell what that sigh meant—contempt? tiredness? or just boredom.
"Card," the driver said. Just one word, but it sounded like a verdict.
She finally managed to tap her card and made it onto a window seat. Fine rain stuck to the glass, blurring the world outside—just like her understanding of the future.
The homeware store glowed with warm yellow light, much friendlier than the sky outside. It was crowded, mostly with students pushing trolleys full of pots and plates, their faces tired but excited—as if they had just rented the first stage of their lives.
The woman who helped her find dishes was middle-aged. Fine lines appeared when she smiled, but her smile was kind. She asked Zola, "What are you here for?"
"Art history," Zola said.
"Good choice," the woman replied. Her voice was soft, with a blessing in it that Zola couldn't quite place.
For a moment, Zola felt faintly understood, faintly allowed to be here. It was brief, but real.
On the way back, she missed her stop. When the bus left, she stood in the rain, and the rain suddenly grew heavier, as if it were arguing with someone. She had to walk back along the road. Water seeped into her shoes. Her hair stuck to her face. The face that had been so clean and composed in the airport now looked a little bedraggled.
Her clothes were from home—thin, not very well-fitted. The rain plastered them against her skin. The city was not gentle, but it was honest: You're not here to be taken care of.
By the time she got back to her room, the sky had darkened. The room was still just as clean, but it no longer felt like a strange object. It felt more like a quiet presence watching her.
Zola dried herself off and put the things she'd bought into the kitchen, on the desk, on the shelves, one by one. Her movements were slow, almost ritualistic.
When she finished, a deep stillness settled over her. Not peace, but the feeling of finally touching ground with nowhere left to retreat.
She didn't cry.
She just lay on the bed and listened to the rain knocking on the eaves outside.
She realized—the world had not changed because she left home.
Only she had. She had become a little smaller, and a little clearer.
The next morning, the sky finally cleared.
Not a bright, blue-sky kind of clear. It was the kind of pale grey that almost didn't have a personality. Sunlight fell to the ground as if it were hesitating, slipping through thin seams in the clouds and lighting the wet streets below. The pavement shone faintly, like a mirror that had just been wiped and not yet dried.
When Zola stepped out, the wind was cool, with a hint of sting in it—not unkind, more like a reminder: this is not home; you'd better stay awake.
She followed the map, walking down streets whose names she still couldn't pronounce. The houses stood quietly on both sides—old brick, old windows, old eaves. They weren't in a hurry, they didn't explain themselves, and they didn't care if she was seeing them for the first time or just passing by.
This city wasn't like the cities in Country C, full of slogans, speed, and new shining materials constantly replacing the old. Here, the place felt like an old person who refused to be "updated," holding on to a certain stubborn dignity.
Some rows of houses were covered in ivy. The vines were like memories—old, deep, climbing without much concern, but clinging hard. The paint on the iron railings had once been bright; now it was peeling, with rust showing through like scars of time that no one had tried to hide.
The stone pavement under her feet was uneven. Each step made a small sound. Those sounds felt like a reminder: even light footsteps would still be heard.
At one corner, the view suddenly opened. The cathedral stood there.
It wasn't "beautiful" exactly, and not just "majestic" either. It was a silent weight.
The spire pierced the sky as if in argument with the clouds. The walls were thick, as though they had been built to bear things ordinary buildings couldn't. Stone on stone, layer by layer, without decorative fuss, carrying a meaning she didn't dare touch.
She stopped, a little dazed. It wasn't awe, not quite. It felt more like being clearly reminded of how small she was.
The tall arched windows and stained glass weren't glowing at this hour. They simply existed, silent. Light seeped through them from behind, as if the glass itself was waiting for some ceremony that belonged only to the night or to prayer.
Zola walked towards it.
The door was heavier than any door she'd seen. It didn't look like it existed to welcome people in, but to protect some ancient quiet inside.
When she pushed it, it made a low, rough sound. Like old bones moving for the first time in a long while. Or history letting out a breath.
It was colder inside than outside.
Not winter cold, but the cold of stone and time.
The air was thick with dust, damp, and a faint, undefined religious scent. It wasn't fragrance. It was the sediment of breaths, prayers, and countless silent visits.
Her footsteps echoed under the vaulted ceiling, sharper and more unsure than she expected. She suddenly felt that this was not a place that belonged to daily life, not to her, not to anyone in a hurry.
Light came through the stained glass and broke into colours—red, blue, gold, green. It lay on the backs of chairs, on stone columns, on the floor, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Dust floated in that light. Each tiny speck looked like a soundless little life.
Zola looked up. Far above, carved saints watched over the nave. Their faces were calm, carrying a deep, quiet sorrow. It wasn't pity. It was a kind of peace that seemed to say: in the end, you will have to face your own fate.
She walked carefully towards the centre of the church. Rows of chairs were set out in neat lines, as if everyone who had ever entered had been required to sit, and to be quiet, and to think.
She sat down. Her fingers brushed the back of the wooden chair. The surface was rough and cold, with the feeling of a history that stretched further back than she could imagine.
She closed her eyes and heard something like an echo.
Not a sound, but the weight of years settling in her ears.
She breathed slowly. Her chest felt as if an invisible hand had rested there—not pressing her down, but reminding her of where she was. A kind of stillness rose up inside her. She didn't know where that feeling came from, but it settled in her quietly, like a seed.
When she opened her eyes, she noticed a candlestick at her feet. The metal had been worn dim by time. Wax had dripped down in layers, like tears that had taken too long to fall and had frozen mid-air. Every trail of wax looked like a prayer that had persisted, hurt, or longed for something.
Zola reached out and lit a candle.
When the flame flared, she saw her own shadow tremble gently on the stone wall. The flame kept flickering, but without restlessness. It simply burned, steadily and silently.
It lit up her hand.
It lit up the part of her future she had not yet found words for.
On registration day, the weather was about the same as the days before. Grey and half-hearted, as if the sky couldn't be bothered to have an opinion.
Zola's alarm dragged her out of sleep early. Her phone screen glowed coldly, turning the room into something like a newly powered exhibition space. She checked herself in the mirror—hair more or less in place, dark circles not too obvious—then slung her bag over her shoulder, like a piece of cargo ready for inspection.
Registration was held in one of the old college buildings. From the outside, the place looked ancient; inside, it had been filled with signs, screens, and a temporary order that had been carried in for the occasion.
The corridor was long. The stone floor had been polished by hundreds of years of footsteps until it shone, yet when she walked on it, it made almost no sound. It was people who seemed a little frivolous by comparison.
She followed the crowd into a large lecture room. At the front hung a projection screen, covered in English words: assessment, modules, plagiarism, deadlines. The words weren't difficult, but projected on the white surface they looked like something that had been drained of moisture, leaving only their bones.
One staff member after another took turns on the podium. Each spoke with the calm of someone used to talking and to being listened to. Their pace wasn't fast, but there was a gentle pressure in it that said: you'd better remember this.
Someone explained exam procedures. Someone walked through the online system. Someone read out the college rules—lateness, absences, essay format. Now and then a joke lightened the slide, and a few students in the front row laughed on cue, their laughter as pre-programmed as background music.
Zola listened. She understood half; the other half sounded as if it were coming through water.
She took notes carefully, but halfway through the third page, she suddenly realized she might never read them again. She kept writing anyway, slower now, as if she were leaving some future version of herself a record that said: I did try to understand, once.
During the break, the school handed out tea and biscuits.
The tea was free. The biscuits were free. But that "free" reminded her more of promotional samples than kindness.
She stood in a corner with her paper cup, watching others trade jokes, talk about cities, carefully ask about each other's degrees. English words flew back and forth, bouncing off the walls and returning. She could recognize the words, but not the relaxed tone they carried.
All day, she moved from room to room, sitting, listening, moving again—like stock checked in batches. When everything finally ended, it was already dark. The corridor lights flicked on, turning the old walls a tired yellow.
She was about to head back to her room when her phone buzzed.
An email—from the college.
There was a word in the subject line that she was becoming familiar with: Welcome Party.