The air in the dark office was thick with dust, collecting on every surface and fixture. The room hadn’t seen use in months; its inheritor wouldn’t be seen dead among the stuffy trappings of academia. The real wood desk, the plush, leather-upholstered chair and the ornamental handwriting implements all stank of outdated tradition. As the door jerked open, Stroth breathed in that familiar scent, hesitating on the threshold of the AUM Curator’s office.
As she entered, automated blinds lifted gently to reveal a skyline with which she was intimately familiar. The traffic was quieter due to the standing shelter-in-place advisory, and occasional wisps of black smoke marked scars from the conflict in orbit, but nevertheless the ornate spires and blocky edifices were just as she remembered. And yet…
Stroth crossed to the desk chair and tentatively sat. She tried to recall the tribulations of a typical day - a procession of faculty members, researchers and potential donors all demanding her attention. To her surprise, Stroth found that she could not keep still. Having sat down, dust billowing into the already saturated air, she felt a compulsion to stand, to act. You can never go home, she thought with remorse.
Abruptly, the towering silhouette of Tren Krellos filled the doorway. “They’re wrappin’ it up in orbit,” he said gruffly. “You ready to go?”
Stroth took a long breath, relishing the smell of old books and the feel of worn leather on her skin. Then, standing, she replied, “Yes. Time to move on.”
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