Episode 10: Lavender, Ink, and Memory

There are few things more tedious than grading papers written by people who believe effort is optional.

I sit at my desk, pen in hand, surrounded by stacks of disappointment.

“This essay,” I murmur to no one, “contains five paragraphs and no thoughts.”

I mark it accordingly.

Red ink blooms across the page like a necessary wound.

I pause.

Not because I am tired.

Because I am bored.

A dangerous state.

My eyes drift—inevitably—to the corner of my desk.

The drawings.

Crimson. Black. Delightfully unsettling.

Persephone’s lines are sharper today.

Hades has improved his symmetry.

I allow myself a small smile.

Then I look at my screen.

Discord.

Active.

Three familiar names.

Myself.

Mira.
Lena.

Online.

“…Well,” I say softly, setting my pen down. “That’s more productive.”

Email is too slow.

Text lacks… atmosphere.

Discord will do.

I type.

Diana: You’re both online. How inefficient of you.

The response is immediate.

Mira: Says the woman grading papers during her free period
Lena: Shouldn’t you be terrifying students right now?

Diana: I am. Remotely.

A pause.

Then—

Mira: How bad are they today?
Diana: One described Shakespeare as “vibe-heavy.”
Lena: …My condolences.

I lean back slightly.

Already better.

Lena: How are the twins?
Diana: Thriving. They dismantled a group project yesterday.
Mira: Of course they did.
Lena: Beckett influence.
Diana: Mine as well. Do not reduce my contribution.

Mira: Never. You refined him.
Lena: We just… started the process.

I pause at that.

Started the process.

Yes.

You did.

Diana: I remember.

A typing bubble appears.

Stops.

Starts again.

Mira: You met him before we even knew what we were doing
Lena: You held him before we did half the time

I glance down at my hand.

Still.

Steady.

“I did,” I murmur.

I remember it clearly.

Of course I do.

I remember everything that matters.

He was small.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Most babies cry.

Demand.

Insist on being perceived.

Beckett did not.

He observed.

Even then.

“You’re a strange one,” I had said, adjusting the blanket around him.

He blinked at me.

Silent.

Unbothered.

Diana: He didn’t cry much.
Mira: No
Lena: He didn’t… react like other kids

Diana: He watched.

I remember the way his eyes followed movement.

Not erratic.

Focused.

Intent.

Mira: School changed that
Lena: Or tried to

My expression cools slightly.

Yes.

School.

Diana: I recall.

The tutoring sessions came later.

Volunteer hours, they called it.

As if that was the reason.

He sat across from me.

Small.

Careful.

Already guarded.

“They’re wrong,” he had said once.

Quiet.

Certain.

“About?” I asked.

“Everything.”

I smiled then.

Not kindly.

Not unkindly.

Just… honestly.

“Yes,” I told him. “They usually are.”

Back in the present, I exhale slowly.

Lena: You were the only one he talked to at first
Mira: We tried but… he trusted you differently

Diana: I did not force him.

That is where most people fail.

They demand openness.

They punish silence.

They misunderstand restraint as deficiency.

I never did.

Diana: I gave him space. Structure. Clarity.
Mira: You gave him safety
Lena: That too

Safety.

An overused word.

Rarely understood.

I glance at my reflection in the darkened screen.

Cold. Composed. Untouchable.

The “ice queen,” as they so inelegantly put it.

And yet—

Diana: He was easy to care for.

There’s a pause.

Then—

Mira: …That’s not the word I’d use
Lena: He was hurting

“Yes,” I say quietly.

I remember the signs.

Not obvious.

Never obvious.

The flinching.

The withdrawal.

The careful avoidance of attention.

The way he spoke about teachers.

About classmates.

About “mistakes” that were not his.

And later—

Hospitals.

Therapists.

Failures of systems that pretend competence.

My grip tightens slightly on the desk.

Then relaxes.

Control.

Always.

Diana: He focused.

Mira: He did
Lena: And he’s still… him

I smile faintly.

Yes.

That’s the remarkable part.

Diana: He is.

Not hardened.

Not cruel.

Not loud.

Still—

gentle.

Kind.

Careful.

Mira: You helped with that
Lena: A lot

Diana: I did what was necessary.

I pause.

Then add—

Diana: I would not change him.

No hesitation.

No qualification.

Lena: Not even the anxiety?
Mira: The germaphobia?

I consider it.

Briefly.

“No,” I say aloud.

Diana: No.

Because those things are not separate from him.

They are part of the structure that kept him intact.

Diana: He is careful because the world was not.
Diana: He is quiet because noise failed him.
Diana: He is kind because he chose to be.

A pause.

Longer this time.

Mira: …You really love him
Lena: Ice queen, huh?

I lean back in my chair.

Cross my legs.

Allow myself the smallest, sharpest smile.

Diana: I am not cold.
Diana: I am selective.

Three dots.

Then—

Mira: That’s worse
Lena: For everyone else

“Precisely.”

I glance at the time.

Break is nearly over.

Pity.

Diana: I have papers to finish.
Mira: Go terrorize the next generation
Lena: We’ll talk later

Diana: Obviously.

I close the app.

Silence returns.

I pick up my pen.

Look down at the next essay.

“Explain the significance of narrative voice—”

I sigh.

“Hopeless,” I murmur.

Then, after a pause—

quieter—

“Not all of them.”

Because some—

very few—

learn.

Grow.

Endure.

And one—

in particular—

came into my life before he could even speak…

…and never once needed to be anything other than exactly what he already was.

I mark the paper.

Red ink.

Precise.

Controlled.

And somewhere, in the quiet spaces between memory and routine—

lavender lingers.