The first thing Elena packed was the box with her mother's necklace.
Not her clothes. Not her laptop. Not the notebooks or the half-read books stacked on her dresser. Just that little silver box, nestled in tissue paper, sealed gently like it might break if she looked at it too long.
The rest came slowly.
A drawer at a time.
The apartment she shared with Maya had always felt temporary—borrowed warmth, not quite home. But as she taped up boxes and sorted her belongings into "keep," "donate," and "not sure," she began to realize how much of her life had taken root here.
The late-night talks on the couch.
The quiet dinners.
The early mornings before work, when Maya would slide her a coffee and mutter, "You've got this," like a spell.
She'd miss that.
The graduate school application process was... intense.
Daniel kept his word—he funded everything.
He sent her a pre-paid courier account to ship her transcripts. He introduced her via email to a professor in Sorellia, Dr. Avelin, who had read her writing samples and replied warmly:
"Your work shows promise. If you apply to the Advanced Analytics track, I'll support your application."
It felt unreal.
She wasn't used to doors opening.
She was used to fighting her way through them.
On her last day at work, her boss gave her a stiff handshake and a generic goodbye card signed by people she barely knew. She left the building with a cardboard box and her resignation letter still saved in Drafts.
Outside, the wind smelled like something new.
At home, Maya was waiting.
Two mugs of tea. A carton of chocolate-covered almonds. A blanket on the couch.
"So," Maya said, tucking her legs under her. "How long before you leave?"
"Three weeks," Elena replied. "Visa's processing. Flights booked."
"You scared?"
Elena smiled faintly. "Terrified."
"Good." Maya leaned over and nudged her shoulder. "Means it matters."
Later that night, as they packed the last of Elena's things, Maya found a photo tucked in the back of a drawer. It was an old one—Margaret and Diana, arms around each other, laughing at something outside the frame. Elena stood between them, maybe twelve years old, squinting into the sun.
Maya held it up. "This is the version of you I never knew."
"She didn't last long," Elena murmured.
"Maybe not. But she's still here. You carry all of them."
They didn't cry.
They just folded the photo gently, placed it in Elena's carry-on, and kept packing.
Elena's flight was scheduled for a Thursday afternoon. Gray skies hung over Northwynn that morning, a drizzle pattering lightly against the windows like the city itself was mourning her departure.
She dressed simply—dark jeans, sweater, a soft scarf Diana once gave her—then zipped up her final bag and stood for a long moment in the middle of the room she'd called hers for two years.
It looked hollow now.
Like someone else had lived here.
Maya drove her to the airport.
The silence in the car was thick, but not uncomfortable. They'd said everything they needed to say the night before—over tea, over the photo, over a shared understanding that this was goodbye, but not the end.
Still, when Maya pulled into the drop-off lane and put the car in park, she didn't move.
Neither did Elena.
"You'll call me when you land," Maya said.
"I will."
"And when you get your visa extension."
"Yes."
"And if any man even looks at you sideways—"
"I'll call the consulate and then you."
That earned a small laugh. Then Maya's expression shifted—tightened—and she leaned across the center console to hug her.
"Go be brilliant," she whispered.
Elena held on. "Thank you. For everything."
The plane lifted off at 2:45 p.m.
As Northwynn shrank beneath her, Elena pressed her forehead to the window and watched the city dissolve into clouds. Her palms were damp. Her chest heavy. But somewhere deep beneath the nerves and the grief, something warm flickered.
A sense that she was not just running from something.
But finally running toward something.
Daniel met her at the Sorellian airport with a simple wave and a sturdy umbrella.
"Long flight?"
"Yes," she said, blinking at the unfamiliar language on the airport signage. "But I made it."
"Welcome to Sorellia."
They didn't hug. There was no grand emotional moment. Just two people walking side by side through the mist, a small suitcase between them, and the unspoken understanding that this was a beginning neither of them could define.