The dean didn't answer right away.
She looked at Ardis, her eyes calm but thoughtful. Then she leaned back slightly in her chair, one hand resting lightly on the desk.
"You were right," she said quietly. "Originally, I wouldn't have chosen you."
Ardis didn't speak. But her posture shifted, just a little. Not tense. Just attentive.
The dean glanced up.
"Not because I doubted you," she said. "But because I didn't want to ask more from someone who's already carried more than most."
That made Ardis pause.
The tension in her shoulders came back—not harsh, just a quiet flicker, like something personal had been touched.
"You've always been strong," the dean went on. "Even after your parents passed. You didn't let it swallow you. You didn't drift. You just kept going."
Ardis didn't flinch. But she didn't move either.
"I thought giving you space was what you needed," the dean said. "And maybe it was. But space can turn into distance. And distance… into silence."
