Chapter 1 The Move
The bus jolted along the wet road, wipers struggling to push away the fine rain, as if trying to fight off an endless curtain of water. I stared out the window, realizing more and more with each mile: I was really going to Edinburgh.
The city greeted me as though it had never known the sun. Dampness clung to the glass, the few streetlights drowned in fog, and the old stone houses flashing past the window seemed like shadows from another century. Time here moved slower, and it felt as if the rain wasn’t just weather, but part of the city’s very soul.
Inside me it was the same: a constant fog, the noise of thoughts that wouldn’t quiet down. Moving, studying, the unknown. Everything mixed together in my head, echoing like a heavy drumbeat.
“Next stop…” the driver’s muffled voice made me flinch, as though waking from a dream.
I clutched my bag tighter and adjusted the box I was barely holding on my knees. The rest—three more boxes—waited in the luggage compartment. My entire past now fit into cardboard, and ahead of me stretched an emptiness I had to fill on my own.
When the bus stopped, a blast of cold air hit my face. I stepped outside, struggling with the box, and was soaked almost immediately in the fine drizzle. An umbrella, as usual, I hadn’t brought. But there was a kind of symbolism in that: as if the city was testing me—whether it would accept me or not.
The climb to the house felt like a trial. A narrow street wound between gray stone buildings, every window glowing with a faint yellow light. I breathed in the scent of wet stone and old asphalt, and for some reason it all felt familiar. Perhaps I had seen it in a dream.
At last, I reached the right floor and unlocked the door to my studio. In my head, the bus was still rumbling, my thoughts buzzing as loud as the street outside. I set the box down by the entrance and stood for a long while, not daring to step farther.
White concrete walls greeted me with their chill. The tiles on the floor shone under the dim lamp, as though rain had just swept through the apartment. In the corner stood a small table of dark wood. On the floor, a futon—plain and low, like in Japanese films.
A burgundy sofa looked too old for the space, but it was the one thing that added warmth. The yellow lamp light fell softly, leaving long shadows across the walls. A wardrobe stood ajar, as if already waiting for my books and clothes.
I walked inside, pulled off my wet jacket, and sank onto the sofa. My heart was racing. The mess in my head wouldn’t let me focus. I exhaled slowly and, for the first time, thought about tomorrow.
Tomorrow meant the university. New classrooms, new people, new eyes in which I’d have to find a place for myself. I didn’t know whether I was afraid of it, or waiting for it. But one thing was clear: everything had changed.
I glanced at the boxes lying on the floor and smiled faintly. My entire past in four boxes. And a whole life ahead.
I switched off the light, leaving only the desk lamp on. The room grew darker still, half-light wrapping the walls, and it felt as though the apartment was breathing with me.
And for the first time all day, I felt not fear—but anticipation.
