The university library was my second home. Clustered study carrels, the hush of turning pages, the sweet brainstorm aroma of steaming cappuccinos—I thrived in the quiet rigor. Midterms loomed, and I was immersed in immunology charts when my phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen: “Dad.” He never called during exam season. My pulse quickened.
Dad (voice trembling): “Emma, I need you home. Now.”
Me (heart pounding): “Dad? What’s wrong?”
Dad: “Just… get here.” Click.
My coffee cup shook in my hand. A sudden knot of dread coiled in my stomach. I gathered my laptop, shoved my notes into my backpack, and sprinted out of the stacks, nearly colliding with a pair of startled freshmen.
The Drive Home
The forty‑five‑minute drive blurred into anxious thoughts. Had Mom—who’d passed away five years earlier—been in an accident? Was Dad ill? Adrenaline pulsed through me as I obeyed every traffic rule with almost fearful exactness.
Dusk settled as I turned onto our suburban street. The house’s exterior looked unchanged—an aged brick split by a central bay window; Dad’s ancient Ford parked in the drive. And there, unexpectedly, sat a sleek black sedan that I’d never seen before.
