Mission Forensic
Part 31: The Quiet Return
The week after the workshop unfolded like a slow exhale. The banners were gone, the marigolds had browned and wilted, and the corridors smelled faintly again of chalk dust and paper instead of polish and perfume. What had been a hive of movement now returned to the familiar rhythm of classes, footsteps, and the occasional echo of laughter spilling through the atrium.
Edward and Catherine arrived on campus just past eight, the early light slanting between the neem trees, turning their leaves translucent green. The car door shut with its usual precision. Catherine balanced her coffee flask in one hand, her notebook in the other, her hair twisted into a loose knot that was already surrendering to the morning breeze.
“Feels strange,” she murmured as they walked toward the main building. “No posters, no volunteers running around, no chaos.”
“Peaceful,” Edward said.
“Boring,” she countered.
He smiled faintly. “You say that now, but in ten minutes Dr. Ruchika will start her pharmacology lecture and you’ll wish we were back in chaos.”
She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Only if you’re sitting beside me.”
The classroom filled in bursts — the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of bags, the hum of half-awake conversation. Shawn arrived last, dramatically clutching a file under one arm and a samosa under the other.
“Recovered from your fame, Mr. Organising Committee?” he asked, flopping into the seat behind Edward.
Edward didn’t look up from his notebook. “Barely.”
Ahana slid in beside Shawn, her expression unreadable until she caught sight of the crumbs already falling from his paper bag. “If you spill that again, I’m reporting you to the hygiene board.”
“There’s a hygiene board?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “Then they should honour me for nutritional diversity.”
Catherine rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “One day you’ll choke mid-punchline and Ahana won’t save you.”
Ahana uncapped her pen with surgical precision. “No promises.”
Dr. Ruchika entered then — saree in rich turquoise, matching bangles catching the light — and the room shifted into order. The whiteboard gleamed; the projector flickered awake.
“Good morning,” she said, voice brisk but warm. “Today’s topic: drug metabolism and enzyme kinetics. I hope your Sunday brains are back to weekday speed.”
The first slide appeared: smooth graphs, elegant pathways. Edward leaned forward, already jotting notes in compact lines. Catherine’s hand brushed briefly against his on the shared desk before she turned her attention to the board. It was a fleeting contact, unnoticed by others, yet grounding in its familiarity — the quiet rhythm they had returned to after the noise of the past week.
By noon, lectures gave way to chatter in the corridor. The four friends spilled out together, light spilling across the terrazzo floors.
“I think,” Shawn declared, “we should commemorate our survival with actual food.”
Ahana’s brow lifted. “You had food through every class.”
“Exactly,” he replied, as if that proved his point. “I’ve trained for this.”
Catherine laughed, linking her arm through Edward’s as they followed. The canteen smelled of spice and frying oil, tables half-filled with clusters of students dissecting both meals and rumours. They claimed their usual corner.
Conversation slipped easily between them — jokes, small complaints, snippets of the next assignments. Edward, though quieter, let their voices fill the space around him like sunlight. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t managing anything. He was simply here — with them.
Afternoon labs stretched lazily; the air in the corridors carried the scent of acetone and reagent, the steady hum of instruments. When the day finally loosened, the campus glowed in amber.
They walked together toward the parking lot, shadows long and soft. Shawn and Ahana split off toward the bus stop, still bickering about enzyme formulas. Catherine leaned against the car door while Edward unlocked it, her voice lowering.
“You know,” she said, “I like this version of you better.”
He looked up. “Which one?”
“The one who’s not fixing microphones or chasing certificates. The one who actually breathes.”
He opened the door for her, smiling faintly. “Breathing’s easier when you’re around.”
She slid in, that small smile lingering as the car rolled out through the gate. The city unfolded ahead in streaks of light, ordinary again — but the kind of ordinary that felt precious, earned.
At a red light, Catherine reached across the console, her fingers finding his. “No workshops this week?” she asked.
“No workshops,” he said. “Just us.”
The signal turned green, and the car moved forward into the evening — the campus fading behind them, the quiet promise of new days waiting just ahead.
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