I force the key harder, feel the give, and step into the space.
It smells faintly like lemon-scented cleaner and something metallic beneath it-ink, maybe. Dust. Regret.
My new office is narrow but long, with a wall of gray bookshelves and a desk that looks like it was dragged in during some Nixon-era renovation. There's one chair across from mine. I appreciate the message: One-on-ones aren't meant to be comfortable.
The windows are sealed shut. A storm hisses against the glass.
I close the door behind me.
I set the box down on the desk and open it, layer by layer. One framed photograph. A copy of Winnicott's The Maturational Processes. A red leather notebook I haven't written in since... No. Not yet. A white ceramic mug with a hairline crack at the lip. My laptop, still wrapped in bubble wrap from the move.
Each item feels like it belongs to someone else.
This isn't a fresh start. It's a rerun in a new location.
A soft knock at the open door. I turn.
A woman stands there-early fifties, polite smile lacquered over indifference.
"Dr. Merrill?" she asks. "I'm Deborah. Department secretary."
She holds out an envelope. My office key. Why I'm just getting it now is a question I won't ask.
"You're in 2C," she says. "Most of the psychology faculty are upstairs, but... this was the room that became available."
She doesn't explain why. I don't ask.
I take the envelope. Her fingers graze mine just a second too long. Not warm. Not kind. Curious.
"Thank you," I say, quiet.
She studies me. "You'll want to keep your door locked."
I smile like I'm amused. "I'm not here to make enemies."
"No," she says. "But the ghosts tend to knock whether you invite them or not."
She leaves before I can respond.
I drop into the desk chair. It creaks-like everything else here. I lean back and stare at the ceiling for a moment. Let the silence stretch.
I want this to work.
I don't need admiration. Or friends. Or trust.
Just space.
Just time.
Just... stillness.
There's a drawer in the desk that doesn't open.
I try it once, twice. Locked.
Not unusual. But still-something about it irritates me. The control of it. The secrecy. As if someone decided which parts of this space I was allowed to access, and which parts were off-limits. I'll have to ask Deborah for the key. Or pick it myself.
I take the last item from the box: a silver pen with a name engraved on the barrel. Mine. A gift from the board chair of my last university. Before he resigned. Before I did.
I run my thumb over the inscription like it might disappear.
Outside, the wind kicks up. The rain turns harder, angled. The trees bow in a synchronized tremor.
I check the time.
First lecture's in twenty minutes.
I rise, straighten my coat, and catch my reflection once more in the glass wall before I step out.
I hate the way I look when I'm pretending to be calm.