The Ink of Our Souls|ONC2025

Late spring brought one of the first truly warm days of the year, and with it came a quiet sense of courage. My hand hovered over the skirt I had laid out on the bed. It wasn't short, but it didn't conceal the scar that ran from my thigh to below my knee, long and uneven, still faintly pink against my pale skin. I held the soft, brown fabric against my body and stared at the reflection, waiting for the voice of insecurity to win. I had worn skirts before, but always with leggings or something to hide my damaged right leg. Something inside me wanted to see Michael's response to the reminder of my imperfection. The scar was a badge of survival, showing where bone had broken through flesh and where careful hands had put everything back where it belonged. And I didn't want to hide it any longer.

I didn't remember the pain of the injury itself. Everything after the crash, until I woke in the hospital, was lost to me. But the scar remained a symbol of the pain of recovery. I slipped it on and examined my appearance for a long time, debating whether I truly had the courage to leave it bare. Then the doorbell rang, making the decision for me, and I reached for my shoes.

Michael's smile remained steady when I opened the door. His eyes flickered briefly to my legs, but he did not look away. Instead, his gaze softened, not with pity but with quiet and sincere admiration.

"You look beautiful," he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Are you ready to head out?"

"Yes," I answered, more confidently than I felt. As the word left my mouth, it struck me that I would be stepping into the world with my scars uncovered, exposed not just to Michael, but to everyone. A flicker of panic rose, and I considered going back inside to change.

Before I could take a step, Michael reached for my hand. His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady. He did not say anything else. He simply waited. And somehow, that was enough to bring me back to myself.

Living close to the University in the spring had its advantages. Many small restaurants and shops had been waiting for the change in weather, and now their tables and wares spilled onto the sidewalks for those who wanted to wander in the sunlight. As we walked, I was acutely aware of the light breeze against my bare leg. The scar felt more visible with every step, and I found myself glancing at passing strangers, wondering if they were staring.

Michael, either unaware or perfectly attuned, began talking about the neighborhood. He pointed out new storefronts and reminisced about old ones. Gradually, the pressure in my chest loosened, replaced by the comfort of familiar streets and his easy conversation.

After walking for a while, we chose a cheerful Mediterranean café for lunch. We sat outside, shaded by a broad umbrella, the scent of garlic and grilled vegetables drifting on the breeze.

"Every time I come here, it makes me nostalgic," Michael said as he leaned back in his chair and looked around with a contented sigh. "And makes me feel old."

"You're not old," I said, laughing. "The undergrads just seem really young. Even to me."

I took in the bustling patio and the lively students moving through the street, buzzing with energy and noise. It hadn't been long since we had been part of that scene. In fact, we overlapped a bit during our time at school, my first year coinciding with his last before he departed for business school.

"Do you have access to the old archives?" Michael asked, his tone shifting as if a memory had surfaced all at once.

"Um, I haven't tried," I replied. "It's outside my area of study. I think I'd have to apply, and even as a graduate student, I'd need approval from one of the archivists."

"Oh, that shouldn't be too hard. Once you learn how to handle the manuscripts properly, they'll sign you off. After that, you can enter even as an alumnus."