“Because you are at a hinge,” she says. “You mistake transition for exile. You stand between worlds and think that means you belong to neither.”
Something tight in my chest gives way.
“I don’t know where I fit,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I belong here either.”
“You stand in a garden shaped to echo a world two thousand years gone,” she says. “You study a discipline that cannot categorize you. You walk among men out of time and feel more understood by them than by colleagues born in your century. Tell me again you do not belong anywhere.”
A laugh escapes me—wet, surprised, real.
For a heartbeat, her presence softens—not warm, but acknowledging.
“You are not broken,” she says. “Not a misprint in some cosmic ledger. You are placed with intention. This sanctuary is not coincidence. It is your harbor.”
My vision blurs. I swipe at my face.
“I hate crying.”
“I know,” she says, amused. “You prefer your feelings in bullet points.”
A dry breath escapes me.
“Go on, then,” she says. “Make your lists. Build your frameworks. File your complaints. Shape the life that fits you. But do not dim your light again for the comfort of those who fear your brightness.”
Her edges begin to unravel—gold dissolving into shadow, shadow into shimmer.
“Wait,” I say, panic flickering. “Will I—will you—”
“When the wheel needs a nudge,” she murmurs, “I am often near.”
Light shifts.
Sound rushes back—an insect’s buzz, the distant clang from the arena, the whisper of shrubs. Warmth returns to my skin. The air thins to normal.
The sculpture stands exactly where it always has, inert metal frozen in motion.
But I am not the same.
The tightness in my chest hasn’t vanished, but it has loosened. There is room to breathe inside it.
I take in the hedges, the columns, the garden gate, the sanctuary beyond. Voices drift on the wind—Laura’s laugh, Diana calling, the low rumble of a gladiator’s reply.
The sound doesn’t overwhelm. It anchors.
I stand straighter.
“I’m not going to disappear,” I say softly. “Not this time.”
The wheel catches the light.
I walk back toward the sanctuary, each step steady, deliberate. A rhythm I choose.
With every footfall, the truth settles deeper:
I belong. Not by accident. Not tentatively. Not temporarily.
