The corridor felt longer than I remembered.
It was a wide, high-ceilinged hallway with floors so polished they looked like dark water.
I walked slowly, my footsteps steady and rhythmic. I didn't want to rush.
In my previous life, I had hurried down this same hall with my heart hammering against my ribs, feeling like an intruder in a palace.
This time, I took my time. I noticed the way the morning light cut through the tall windows, casting long, rectangular blocks of gold across the floor.
I finally reached the administrative office.
It was a heavy wooden door with a brass handle that felt cold against my palm.
With a calm hand, I pushed it open. The hinges gave a soft, high-pitched creak that seemed to announce my arrival to the quiet room.
The office was exactly as it had been in my memories: quiet, neat, and professional.
It smelled of fresh printer ink, lemon-scented furniture polish, and the faint, dry scent of old paper.
A large oak desk sat at the center of the room.
A silver laptop was open on its surface, the screen glowing with a pale blue light.
To the side, several manila folders were stacked in a perfectly straight pile, their edges aligned.
It was a room that demanded order and discouraged any kind of mess.
Inside, a familiar face sat behind the desk—Miss Lyra.
She didn't look up immediately.
She kept her head down, her eyes fixed on the screen as her fingers moved in a slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap on the keys.
Miss Lyra was a woman who took great pride in her appearance.
Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and her suit jacket was crisp, without a single wrinkle.
Here we go again, I thought.
A familiar tightness began to form in my chest, but I pushed it down.
Miss Lyra was the gatekeeper of this school's social hierarchy.
She was someone who looked down on anyone who wasn't born into wealth.
In my previous life, I had stood here in a faded dress, clutching my bag until my knuckles turned white.
I remembered the exact moment she had typed my name into the monitor.
I remembered how her thin eyebrows had twitched upward when she saw my financial aid status.
Her expression had changed from professional to disgusted in a heartbeat.
She had purposely delayed me back then, telling me she was "far too busy" to deal with a new enrollment, forcing me to sit on a hard plastic chair for nearly an hour while she chatted on the phone and organized her pens.
I wouldn't sit on that chair today.
"Good morning, ma'am," I said.
I stood tall, keeping my shoulders back and my chin level as I stepped toward the desk.
Miss Lyra finally looked up.
Her eyes were sharp, scanning me from my shoes to my face.
She didn't see a trembling girl today; she saw someone who looked like they belonged.
Her tone was smooth but distant, like a recording.
"Good morning. How may I help you?"
"My name is Thalia," I replied.
I kept my voice flat and calm, devoid of the desperation I used to carry.
"I've just resumed today, and I was told to report here first."
"Oh yes," Miss Lyra said lightly, her voice trailing off as she turned back to her laptop.
"Give me a minute."
She began to type.
The click of the keys was the only sound in the room.
The faint glow from the screen lit her face, highlighting the sharp lines around her mouth.
I watched her eyes.
They scanned the monitor with focus, searching for my file.
Then, I saw the shift.
First, her fingers stopped moving.
Then, she smiled—a polite, plastic curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.
She looked back at me, but her gaze was different now.
It was calculating.
"You'll have to be taken to the headmaster's office," she said, her voice dropping into a sugary, fake tone.
"He'll want to meet you personally. For now, you'll need to wait here for a while. I have several reports to file before I can escort you."
She reached for a stack of papers, clearly intending to make me wait just as she had done before.
It was a power play—a way to show me that no matter how well I performed on an exam, I was still subject to her schedule.
I tightened my grip on the box I was carrying.
My voice was firm when I spoke.
"If you are that busy, I can find my way around. I wouldn't want to hinder your productivity."
Miss Lyra lifted her head quickly, her eyes narrowing into thin slits.
"Pardon?"
I met her gaze directly, refusing to blink.
"The headmaster must be really eager to meet the girl who not only passed the scholarship exams but did so with full marks. I'm sure if the headmaster found out I was kept waiting in the lobby because of filing, he wouldn't be very pleased with the lapse in hospitality."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Miss Lyra's composure faltered.
Her hand, which had been reaching for a stapler, paused in mid-air.
Surprise was written all over her face.
She wasn't used to students—especially scholarship students—speaking to her with such clinical confidence.
She searched for a response, her mouth opening and closing slightly.
Finally, she cleared her throat.
Her tone was much softer, almost cautious.
"Yes… you are right. A high priority is a high priority. We should head to his office now. I can always finish my work later this afternoon."
She stood up, smoothing her skirt with nervous hands.
"You can put down your box here," she added, gesturing to a side table.
She moved from behind her desk, passing me quickly and heading toward the door.
I set the box down carefully, making sure it was centered on the table.
Will you look at that… this woman really does know her place when the stakes are clear, I thought.
A small, cold smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
"Let's go," I said.
We walked out of the office together.
The dynamic had shifted completely.
Instead of leading me like a stray dog, she walked a half-step ahead, acting more like an usher.
We headed toward the west wing, where the administration was housed.
The corridor stretched ahead, long and quiet.
The sound of our footsteps echoed in a strange rhythm—the soft thud of my shoes against the sharp, metallic click of her heels.
The air felt cooler in this part of the building.
It was touched with the faint scent of old wood and expensive beeswax.
Lamps were fixed along the walls at regular intervals, their brass fixtures shining.
They cast a soft, amber glow that guided the way, reflecting off the glass frames of the various awards and portraits that lined the walls.
Each shadow we passed seemed to stretch and shrink against the dark wood paneling.
The silence between us was thick, but I didn't find it uncomfortable.
I welcomed it.
It gave me space to observe.
This was so different from the last time.
In my first life, I had spent this walk apologizing for being a bother, trying to make small talk that Miss Lyra ignored.
Now, I had forced her hand.
She knew I wasn't a girl who could be dismissed or bullied into the corner.
We passed several closed doors, each one featuring a neat brass plate with a name and title.
The entire building felt like a machine designed to remind you of your place.
The high ceilings made you feel small; the expensive decor made you feel poor; the heavy silence made you feel like you shouldn't speak unless spoken to.
But I wasn't playing by those rules anymore.
Miss Lyra walked with a brisk, hurried purpose now.
Her posture was straight, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.
I followed at a steady pace, my eyes fixed forward.
Every step was a bridge between my past and the future I was going to rewrite.
Every step brought me closer to him.
Finally, we reached a set of double doors that were larger and more ornate than the others.
They were made of dark mahogany with intricate carvings around the edges.
Miss Lyra stopped and took a shallow breath.
She knocked once—a precise, sharp sound—and then opened the door.
The room inside was massive.
It felt more like a private library than an office.
At the far end stood a long executive table, its surface polished to such a high gleam that I could see the reflection of the ceiling lights in the wood.
In the center of the room, there was a smaller coffee table made of glass and iron, and to the right and left were two deep, leather sofas facing each other.
The room smelled of expensive leather, old books, and a hint of cedar.
A man sat behind the large desk.
He was gray-haired, with a face that looked like it had been carved out of stone.
"Sir," Miss Lyra said, her voice dipping into a tone of deep respect, "the new student on scholarship, Miss Thalia, is here."
I stepped forward into the room.
My heart was steady, but every nerve in my body was alert.
Headmaster David.
He was a man who lived for discipline and cared deeply about the school's status.
In my previous life, he had been a distant, terrifying figure who only spoke to me to remind me of the "generosity" the school was showing by letting me attend.
This meeting would be different.
This meeting would set the tone for the rest of the year.
I had to be careful, but I had to be bold.
I walked toward the center of the room, my eyes meeting his without a hint of fear.