Elian learned quickly which rooms noticed him before he spoke.
It wasn't dramatic. No one pointed. No one stared. The recognition moved instead through subtleties—the way a professor's eyes lingered half a second longer on his name on the roster, the way an administrator smiled as if greeting a familiar idea rather than a person.
"Sorell," someone murmured behind him as he paused near the department office. "He's in the first-year cohort."
Another voice responded, low and approving. "I thought so."
Elian didn't turn around. He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking, the sound of his surname trailing him like a soft echo.
Inside the lecture hall, seats filled quickly. He chose one near the aisle, neither hiding nor claiming space. When the professor began introductions, she glanced down at her list and looked up almost immediately.
"Elian Sorell," she said, smiling. "Welcome. We're glad you're here."
The phrase was gentle, practiced. It carried no expectation aloud—and too many beneath it.
After class, an academic advisor approached him with a printed schedule already annotated. "We've outlined a few options you might find suitable," she said. "Nothing binding. Just… pathways."
Pathways. Plural. As if the road ahead had already been surveyed.
"Thank you," Elian said, accepting the papers. His voice stayed even.
Outside, sunlight cut across the quad. He sat on a low wall and pulled out his phone.
Elian: Morning update: no fires yet.
A moment passed.
Juni: That's reassuring. Mine is… loud.
Elian smiled despite himself.
Elian: Loud is survivable.
Juni: Says someone whose building knows his name.
Elian paused, fingers hovering. He typed carefully.
Elian: It knows the name. Not me.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared.
Juni: Still counts.
Elian leaned back, watching students cross the grass with the unthinking confidence of people who assumed the world would meet them halfway. He thought of Juni navigating halls that demanded proof before permission.
Elian: I'll come by tonight. We can trade notes.
Juni: Deal.
He slipped the phone away and stood. The papers in his hand felt heavier than they looked. He folded them once and tucked them into his bag, a small act of refusal.
The name would keep opening doors. He couldn't stop that.
But he could decide how far he stepped through them—and who he brought with him.