Margo Lin had worked at the university for nearly fifteen years. She had seen scandals erupt and fade, watched brilliant minds fall from grace, and seen quiet ones rise from nowhere to change everything. But nothing—not even the tenured professor who once live-streamed her breakdown during a symposium—prepared her for the hallway conversations the morning after the faculty panel.
"She kissed her," a teaching assistant whispered outside Margo's office.
"Not just kissed—declared it. On stage. In front of the board."
"She's just a student, right?"
"And Eleanor Markham? She was faculty. Until yesterday."
The door clicked closed behind Margo. She carried her coffee in one hand and the weight of something unspeakably heavy in the other.
Because Margo had once loved Eleanor.
Not like Winter did—not as something romantic or intimate. But as a kind of lighthouse. A brilliant, uncompromising woman who had once pulled Margo aside after a department meeting and said, "You don't have to dull yourself to be accepted here."
It had stayed with her. For years.
And now, Eleanor had become the scandal they all couldn't stop dissecting.
Later that afternoon, Margo found herself walking the campus perimeter, unsure whether she was avoiding someone or hoping to run into Eleanor.
Instead, she spotted Winter—alone on a bench near the sculpture garden, curled up with a book open in her lap, unread.
Margo approached slowly. "Mind if I sit?"
Winter looked up. "Sure."
They sat in silence for a moment before Margo said, "You remind me of her."
Winter glanced sideways. "Eleanor?"
"She was always quiet after a storm. People thought it meant she didn't care." Margo smiled faintly. "But it meant she cared more than she could show."
Winter's fingers tightened around the spine of her book. "She always looks like she's carrying something too heavy."
"She is."
They both watched a group of students walk by, whispering. One of them nudged another and nodded toward Winter.
"Do you regret saying it?" Margo asked softly.
Winter didn't hesitate. "No."
"Even with all this?"
"I didn't say it to fix things. I said it because I was tired of lying." Winter swallowed. "And because she needed to hear it."
Margo nodded. "I know what it costs to stand with someone when it's inconvenient."
Winter turned to her. "Did you?"
Margo looked ahead. "No. I stood back. I stayed safe. I told myself I was helping by not making it worse."
Winter's voice was quieter. "Do you think it would've made a difference?"
Margo didn't answer.
Because she honestly didn't know.
At that same hour, behind closed doors at the university administration building, the Ethics Committee met in hushed tones.
The fallout had moved fast: Eleanor's resignation, the wave of student protest petitions, the social media frenzy.
"We're not here to debate her morality," the Chair said, folding her hands. "We're here to protect the institution."
A younger member raised his hand. "But she's gone. Why are we still talking about her?"
"Because the student is still here," another member replied. "And if this escalates, it becomes our liability."
They used the word "student" like it was separate from "person."
Like Winter's feelings—her love—were something inconvenient that could be managed away.
Meanwhile, Winter returned to Eleanor's apartment with an ache beneath her ribs she didn't quite understand.
"I saw someone from the department," she said as she kicked off her boots. "Margo Lin."
Eleanor looked up from the kitchen counter. "What did she say?"
"That you were quiet after storms."
Eleanor paused. "She would know."
"She said she stayed safe. That she didn't help when she could've."
Eleanor set down her knife. "She's not the only one."
Winter crossed the room and slipped her arms around Eleanor from behind. "But you still showed up. And I still do."
Eleanor leaned into the touch, eyes closing. "I don't know how this ends."
Winter rested her cheek on her shoulder. "Then we write the ending ourselves."
Outside, the day faded into late evening.
Somewhere in the dining halls, students argued over their meal trays. In faculty lounges, gossip twisted into half-truths. And across campus bulletin boards, someone had pinned up a quote:
"They tried to bury us. They didn't know we were seeds."