"No, I'm sorry too," Grace replies, crouching quickly to pick up her phone.
As she straightens, her gaze lands on the woman's face. There's a flicker of recognition, like a light bulb dimly blinking to life. The woman smiles.
"Good to see you back on campus."
Grace's eyebrows lift ever so slightly. How does she know I'm back? she wonders. But in the next breath, the memory returns.
Ah, right—she's the administrative officer. The one who helped me process my withdrawal paperwork… and the one who called with the news from the donor that brought me back this semester.
"Hello—it's really good to see you again," Grace says with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much for helping me back then. For both the dropout processing and… well, encouraging me to come back."
Even though she's pressed for time, something in her won't let her rush past without expressing genuine thanks.
The woman chuckles softly, waving a hand.
"Haha, I was just doing my job. But I'm glad you're back. Have a wonderful day."
And with that, she walks past, her heels clicking steadily on the path.
Grace watches her for a brief moment, then turns back toward the lecture hall. She rushes into the lecture hall building, her steps brisk, her breath slightly uneven—but her mind is no longer focused on class.
I even thanked the administration officer… but I've never said a single word of thanks to the donor… The thought hits her like a quiet ache.
A twist of guilt unfurls in her chest, accompanied by a wry, almost sarcastic voice in her head.
Wow, Grace. You remembered to thank someone for handling paperwork—but forgot the person who literally paid for your tuition? Who made it possible for you to come back?
She tightens her grip on her laptop. The guilt sharpens—not just because she forgot, but because it's been weeks now. She doesn't know who the donor is, only that someone stepped in, quietly and without any request for recognition. She remembers how stunned she was when she got the call. How she cried alone in her room that night, overwhelmed by the timing, the kindness. She knows—deep down—that God orchestrated it. That God sent that donor into her life.
And yet, she hasn't done anything to find them. Not a single step.
Now the urge rises in her like a wave.
I need to thank that person. Properly. Personally.
She pushes open the building's heavy door and steps into the corridor, the buzz of voices and shuffling students around her fading into background noise.
"Okay," she says quietly to herself, determined. "When class is done, I'm going to the administration office. I'm going to ask who the donor is."
She nods once, setting her resolve like stone.
Because she knows herself—and she knows she can't just accept something so life-changing in silence. Not without at least one honest, heartfelt gesture. Not when someone's quiet generosity gave her a second chance.
And she intends to find that person who helped her—no matter what.
"Are you heading straight home?" Harry asks, slinging his backpack over one shoulder as they step out of the lecture hall together.
"I'm stopping by the administration office first," Grace replies, standing from her seat and brushing a few crumbs from her skirt.
"The admin office? For what?"
"Just… dropping off a paper," she says with a casual shrug, not wanting to get into it.
He nods, unconvinced but polite, and the two of them part ways as the crowd of students flows out into the bright afternoon sun.
Grace turns toward the stairwell, her pace quickening. The building hums with chatter and the clack of footsteps, but her mind is quiet, focused. She ascends the stairs two at a time, then steps into the administration office.
The familiar lady from earlier—warm, composed—sits behind the front desk. Her face brightens when she sees Grace enter.
"How can I help you?" she asks, her tone gentle and welcoming.
Grace hesitates for a beat, her fingers brushing the strap of her bag as she walks forward. Her heart feels oddly full—nervous, hopeful, unsure.
"There's something I wanted to ask…"
"Yes?" the woman prompts, still smiling kindly.
"Is there any way I could contact the donor who paid for my tuition?" Grace asks, her voice quieter now. "I just want to say thank you. Properly."
The woman's smile falters just slightly, softening into something more apologetic.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice warm but firm, "but we're not allowed to share the donor's contact information. Or any personal details."
Grace's shoulders sink just a little.
"I see…" she murmurs, trying not to let the disappointment show too clearly. She pauses, then straightens, giving a small, respectful bow. "I understand. Thank you anyway. I really appreciate it. Have a great day."
"You too, Grace," the woman says with a sympathetic smile, watching as she turns and walks out the door.
Grace is just about to step out the door when she hears the woman's voice behind her.
"Wait."
She stops and turns.
"We usually don't do this," she says gently, "but… since you seem sincere, maybe you could write a letter. If you'd like, we can forward it to the donor for you."
Grace's eyes widen.
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
The light returns to her face, a mix of surprise and gratitude blooming all at once.
"Of course. Just bring it by whenever it's ready."
"Thank you—really, thank you so much."
The lady grins softly, pleased by the sincerity in Grace's voice.
"We're happy to help."
Grace leaves the office with a bounce in her step, her heart lighter than when she walked in. She doesn't know who the donor is, or what kind of person would quietly pay someone's tuition with no expectation of thanks—but now, she finally has a way to say what's been on her heart. And she knows exactly what she wants to write.
Meanwhile, Julian stands in his office, carefully dripping fresh coffee through a handmade pour-over set he brought from home. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans fills the room, blending with the quiet hum of the late Monday morning. Sunlight slants through the tall windows, casting soft golden stripes across the floor and his desk.
Once the brew is complete, he lifts the ceramic mug—warm and fragrant in his hands—and carries it over to his desk with practiced ease. He sits down, savoring the warmth of the cup, ready to ease into the workweek.
Just then, the sharp ring of the old-fashioned desk telephone cuts through the quiet.
Julian sets his cup down and picks up the receiver.
"Yes," he says simply.
A bright, familiar voice responds from the other end. "Hi, Professor Lenter. This is the administration office."
He straightens slightly in his seat, still unsure of the call's purpose. "Hello."
"I'm calling just to inform you," the woman continues, "that the student you became a donor for—she's trying to find a way to contact you."
Julian pauses. The statement catches him off guard, and for a moment, he says nothing.
"And?" he asks, measured but curious.
"Of course, we haven't given out any of your personal information," the woman assures him quickly. "Unless you'd like us to."
Julian leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers brushing the handle of his coffee mug. "No, that won't be necessary. I'd prefer to stay anonymous," he says without hesitation.
"Yes, that's what we assumed," she says, the smile almost audible in her voice. "But she's asked to send you a letter of gratitude. Would that be all right with you?"
A small, involuntary smile tugs at the corners of Julian's mouth.
The thought of Grace—earnest, determined, unable to let a kindness go unacknowledged—brings a flicker of warmth to his chest. He remembers his first impressions of her: a girl who didn't even bother to say hello, who walked past with barely a nod. But now... his perception is quietly shifting. Slowly, steadily.
She's different from what he assumed.
"Sure," he says, his voice calm but touched with something softer. "A letter would be fine."
"Wonderful. We'll pass it along as soon as we receive it. Thank you, Professor Lenter."
"Thank you. Have a good day."
He places the receiver back on its cradle with a quiet click and turns his chair toward the tall window behind him.
Outside, the campus is alive in hues of deep orange and burnished gold. Leaves stir and flutter in the wind, sweeping across the stone pathways like scattered thoughts.
Julian gazes out in silence, the breeze drifting through the open window and brushing gently against his hair. The image of Grace lingers in his mind—not just her face, but the fact that she cares enough to express gratitude to someone she doesn't even know.
That simple gesture tells him more than any conversation ever could.
And in that quiet moment, with the scent of coffee still in the air and the autumn sunlight bathing his office, Julian knows this much for sure. From the very first moment he met her, he's been more drawn to her than he ever meant to admit.