Elias Rhee stood still for a moment in the middle of the corridor, one hand casually resting on the strap of his backpack, the other in the pocket of his black jeans. The long hallway buzzed with voices, footsteps, the occasional slamming of a locker — all of it a muted, familiar chaos. His sunglasses reflected the fluorescent lights above, dulling their harshness into a grey blur.
He had memorized the number of steps from the entrance to Room 206 — the lecture hall he was headed to. Eleven more. His mother had counted them with him once. Quietly. Patiently. Like always.
He took one step. Then another.
“Shit—!”
A sudden impact jolted him, someone colliding with his shoulder hard enough to knock him slightly off balance. He instinctively reached for the wall.
Books tumbled. A thud. Paper scattered.
“I’m so sorry!” a woman’s voice burst out. “God, I wasn’t watching where I was going—are you okay?”
Her voice was warm. Surprised. He could tell she wasn’t mocking him — yet. Not yet.
“I’m fine,” Elias muttered, adjusting his sunglasses with a practiced motion. “Happens.”
She let out a breath. “Ugh, I should’ve looked up. That’s on me.”
He felt her lean down to grab her things. Pens rattled. She smelled of cinnamon. No — cinnamon, and roses. And ink. And something like old paperbacks. Not perfume. Something woven into her skin, her hair, like she had fallen asleep in a library and woke up in a flower shop.
Elias tilted his head slightly, listening.
“You, uh…” she paused, her tone shifting. “Are you—okay to see if I dropped my ID? I think it slid—”
“I’m blind,” Elias said flatly, not cruel, just factual.
A silence. He could hear her breath catch.
“Oh,” she said, then softer, “Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
He waited for the usual next sentence — the awkward fumble of pity, or worse, admiration. That’s so amazing, or You’re so brave. But instead—
She chuckled nervously. “Well, that makes me feel even more like an idiot.”
That surprised him.
“I mean, I bumped into someone and then asked them to look for my ID,” she continued, her tone self-deprecating but not insincere. “Ten out of ten first day.”
“It’s okay,” Elias replied, a small twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth — almost a smile, almost.
He heard her crouch again. “Found it,” she said a second later. “Crisis over.”
Another pause.
“Hey… do you happen to know where the physics building is? Room 206? I’m supposed to be in there now, and I’m already late.”
Elias shifted his stance. “I’m headed there too.”
“Oh perfect!” she said brightly. “Do you mind if I walk with you? Unless you’d rather not — I get it, if—”
He nodded. “It’s fine.”
They began to walk — slow, steady. Elias counted under his breath, almost silent: Three… four… He could hear the soft drag of her shoes beside him. She walked like someone with too much on her mind.
“I’m Wren, by the way,” she said.
“Elias.”
“Nice to meet you, Elias.”
She meant it. No edge, no hidden pity. Just genuine warmth.
Elias tried not to react, but something curled in his chest — that rare, uncomfortable pull of curiosity. Of wanting to know more.
She didn’t ask how long he’d been blind. She didn’t ask what it was like. She didn’t change her voice into that soft, high-pitched tone people used with puppies or patients.
Instead, she said, “You smell like clean laundry and mint gum. Just so you know.”
He blinked behind his glasses.
“That’s not an insult,” she added quickly. “You just… smell normal. Comforting.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever told him what he smelled like. People only noticed what he couldn’t do.
“You smell like books,” he said after a moment. “Ink. Cinnamon.”
She laughed. “Guilty. I spilled cinnamon tea on my bag this morning. And I live in a second-hand bookstore.”
“Explains a lot.”
They reached the door. Elias tapped the frame with his fingers. Familiar. Room 206.
“Here,” he said.
Wren reached for the handle. “Thanks, Elias.”
Her fingers brushed his wrist by accident. She didn’t flinch.
They walk in together.