Mission Forensic
Part 30: The Valedictory
The last morning of the workshop carried a hush different from the charged energy of its opening. The banners still hung bright at the gates, the posters lined the corridors, but the rush had softened into a kind of ease—as though the Institute itself exhaled after days of exacting order.
Edward parked beneath the neem trees, his hands steady on the wheel though his shoulders bore the faint weight of five sleepless nights. Catherine touched his sleeve as they stepped out, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “One more day,” she said.
“One more,” he echoed.
Inside, the auditorium was already being dressed for the end. Garlands looped neatly across the dais, chairs aligned in perfect rows, the podium polished to a sheen. On one side, a neat stack of certificates waited—pale cream, embossed with the Institute’s seal, ribbons tied in deliberate knots.
Edward moved immediately into motion. He checked the projector one last time, confirmed the guest list with faculty, and coordinated the junior volunteers shifting chairs. Catherine slipped to the registration desk, her calm voice guiding latecomers with practiced ease. Shawn hovered near the refreshments, eyeing the samosas as though patience were a personal betrayal, until Ahana dragged him toward the documentation table with a glare sharp enough to pierce.
“History,” she told him flatly, dropping a file in front of him. “Write names properly, or your grandchildren will curse you.”
“They’ll thank me,” Shawn replied, already scrawling with dramatic flourish. “Because I survived the longest inauguration in recorded time.”
Ahana pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something about misplaced trust. Catherine, watching from across the hall, laughed quietly into her palm.
By noon, the hall was full again. Students settled with notebooks, the air carrying the faint fragrance of sandalwood from the lit lamp. The Dean sat poised at the centre, flanked by the remaining dignitaries—directors, experts, faces that had filled the week with authority and instruction.
The valedictory began with speeches—shorter this time, warmer, a celebration rather than a sermon. Each guest spoke of progress, of skill sharpened, of the Institute’s role as a beacon in forensic practice. Applause punctuated their words, rolling through the hall in gentle waves.
Then came the certificates. Names were called, students filed across the stage, hands clasped, smiles polite. Catherine received hers with a slight bow of the head, her eyes flicking briefly to the audience where Edward stood at the side, clipboard in hand.
When his name was called, it was different.
“Mr. Edward Collin,” the Dean announced, “the only student member of the Organising Committee, whose work behind the scenes ensured the success of this event.”
He walked the length of the stage, the applause sharper now, deliberate. The Dean placed the certificate in his hands with a smile that held more than formality. “Well done,” she said quietly, her voice carrying only to him.
From the third row, Catherine clapped with quiet intensity, her eyes never leaving him. Shawn, of course, whistled, drawing half the hall’s attention until Ahana elbowed him so hard he nearly dropped his program.
Edward returned to his place at the side, certificate firm in his grasp, face composed. Yet the weight of the moment stayed with him—a recognition not for spectacle, but for steadiness.
By late afternoon, the crowd began to thin. Students spilled into the sunlit lawns, chattering about sessions, exchanging numbers, carrying the last of their notes. The banners fluttered faintly in the breeze, soon to be taken down, but still bright against the pale sky.
The four of them walked together toward the exit. Shawn stretched dramatically, yawning like a man freed from prison. “If I never hear the word ‘valedictory’ again, I’ll die happy.”
“Stop exaggerating,” Ahana said, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.
“It’s not exaggeration, it’s testimony,” he replied. “Someday, historians will thank me for surviving this week.”
Catherine laughed, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Just be glad you didn’t have Edward’s duties.”
“True,” Shawn conceded, glancing at him. “Though watching him boss around half the volunteers was oddly inspiring.”
Edward shook his head, but Catherine caught the faint curve of his mouth—the closest he came to laughing when he was this tired.
At the bus stand, Shawn and Ahana peeled away, still bickering in their easy rhythm. Catherine and Edward turned toward his car, the evening light laying gold across the road.
Back at the flat, the certificate found its place on the study desk, propped neatly against the stack of journals. Edward set it down without ceremony, but Catherine lingered behind him, her eyes on the embossed seal.
“You do realise,” she murmured, “that everyone saw what you did. Even if most won’t say it.”
He exhaled, dropping into the sofa, exhaustion pulling at his bones. “I just kept things moving.”
She leaned against the backrest, her hand brushing through his hair. “You carried it,” she corrected softly.
For a while, silence held the room—the soft hum of the ceiling fan, the faint rustle of the city outside. Edward closed his eyes, her hand still threading gently through his hair.
When he opened them again, she was smiling down at him, her expression a mix of pride and something deeper, something that needed no words.
The week had ended. The banners would come down, the garlands fade, the bustle dissolve into memory. But here, in the stillness of their flat, something remained—quieter than applause, steadier than recognition.
It was the knowledge that, no matter how heavy the stage or sharp the light, he had not stood alone.
And that, Edward thought as Catherine’s hand slipped into his, was the only accolade that mattered.
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