The Grad Student by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Contemporary

The Grad Student

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,998

The wind sliced through the campus, sharp and bitter, carrying the scent of damp earth and a hint of smoke. Tia tightened her scarf and kept her head down, her boots crunching on the gravel path. She’d stayed in the library too late again, caught in a fruitless loop of editing her thesis. By the time she realized she’d stopped making progress, the clock read past midnight.

The lamplights cast long, flickering shadows, making the campus feel eerie and abandoned. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Another missed call from her mom. She sighed, stuffing it back into her coat. Later, she thought, though she’d said that every night for weeks.

As she passed the old chapel, a faint glow caught her eye. In the courtyard, flames flickered in a fire pit, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Two figures sat near the fire, their outlines blurred by the heat.

She hesitated. It was late, and she wasn’t in the mood for company. But something about the fire drew her in.

“Tia?” Mrs. Rivera’s voice carried through the still air. She was the campus groundskeeper, always pruning hedges or hauling tools in a weathered wheelbarrow. Beside her sat Ana, her teenage daughter, holding a phone in one hand and poking the fire with a stick in the other.

“Hi,” Tia said, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mrs. Rivera waved her over. “You’re not interrupting. Come warm up—you look frozen.”

Tia hesitated, then took a seat on a cold stone bench. She stretched her hands toward the flames, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

“Long night?” Mrs. Rivera asked, her voice low and kind.

Tia nodded. “Yeah. Too much work. It’s starting to feel pointless.”

Ana glanced up from her phone. “You’re in grad school, right?”

“History,” Tia said, brushing ash off her coat.

Ana groaned. “That’s worse than my geometry class.”

Mrs. Rivera laughed softly, her voice like dry leaves rustling. “That’s because you don’t know the stories behind it. History isn’t just facts and dates—it’s people. Struggles. Survival.”

Tia stared into the fire, her thoughts swirling. “There’s this guy who went here in the 1800s,” she said suddenly. “A student. He wrote about how walking across campus in winter felt like stepping into the past, like he was connected to everyone who came before him. All their struggles and dreams—it made him feel like he wasn’t alone.”

Ana poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “So, like, everyone’s problems are just copies of old ones?”

“Not copies,” Mrs. Rivera said, her voice thoughtful. “More like pieces of the same story. Like threads in a big, messy tapestry. Even the tangled ones matter.”

Tia stared at the flames, her mind turning over the words. She thought about her research, about how small and insignificant it felt. Yet the stories she was piecing together weren’t really hers—they belonged to a whole web of people, past and present. Maybe that was the point.

Mrs. Rivera spoke again, quieter this time. “When I was your age, I thought I had to prove myself to everyone. I worked three jobs, raised Ana on my own, and still felt like I wasn’t enough. But over time, I realized it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about leaving something behind. Even if it’s small.”

Ana leaned into her mother, the glow of her phone dimmed now. “Like what?”

“Like showing you how to stand tall,” Mrs. Rivera said simply, ruffling her daughter’s hair.

Tia felt her chest tighten, a strange mix of warmth and ache. She thought of her own mom, of the calls she’d ignored, the stories she hadn’t shared.

She stood up, brushing ash from her jeans. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I needed this.”

Mrs. Rivera smiled, her face serene in the firelight. “You’ll figure it out, Tia. Just don’t forget—you’re not walking alone.”

***

Back in her apartment, Tia paused at the kitchen table, where her roommates were hunched over laptops and empty mugs.

“Hey,” one of them said, surprised to see her. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah,” she said, slipping off her coat. “I thought I’d hang out for a bit.”

They made space for her, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t retreat to her room. They talked about classes, TikTok trends, and weekend plans, their voices overlapping in a pleasant hum. Tia didn’t have much to say, but she didn’t need to. Just being there felt like enough.

Later, in her room, she opened her laptop. The blank page of her thesis stared back at her, the cursor blinking like a dare.

Instead of hesitating, she started typing. She wrote about the student from the 1800s, about Mrs. Rivera’s fire and her quiet strength, about the way connection crept up on you when you weren’t looking.

The words came slowly at first, then poured out in a steady rhythm, weaving together the past and the present, her doubts and her hope.

When the sun broke over the horizon, filling her room with golden light, she sat back and read what she’d written.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers. And that was enough.

As the morning sun stretched across her desk, Tia leaned back in her chair, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She stared at the last sentence of her draft, a faint smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t just a thesis anymore; it felt like a thread of something larger, connecting her to those who had walked this campus long before her.

Her phone buzzed again, breaking the silence. It was her mom. This time, Tia didn’t hesitate.

“Hey,” she said, her voice warm.

“Tia! I didn’t expect you to call back so soon.”

Tia chuckled softly. “Yeah, I’ve been… distracted. But I’ve been thinking about you. About us. I’m sorry for being so distant lately.”

Her mom’s voice softened. “It’s okay, sweetie. I know grad school’s a lot. But you don’t have to do it all alone, you know.”

“I know,” Tia said, her voice steady now. “I’m starting to realize that.”

They talked for a while, the conversation flowing easily. Her mom shared updates about the family, little anecdotes that made Tia laugh, and Tia told her about the fire and Mrs. Rivera’s words. For the first time in a long while, the distance between them felt smaller.

After hanging up, Tia stretched and pulled on her coat. She had an idea—a small one, but it felt right.

***

By midday, she was back at the chapel courtyard. The fire pit was empty, its ashes scattered by the wind. She knelt beside it, brushing away debris with her gloved hands, and placed a small bundle in the center—a notebook she had filled with handwritten reflections about the campus, the people she’d met, and the stories she’d uncovered.

It wasn’t much, but it was her way of leaving something behind. A piece of herself, woven into the tapestry Mrs. Rivera had spoken of.

As she stood, she noticed Ana watching her from the caretaker’s cottage window. A moment later, the teenager emerged, bundled in a thick hoodie.

“What’s that?” Ana asked, pointing to the notebook.

“Just something I wanted to leave here,” Tia said. “For someone else to find.”

Ana tilted her head. “Like a time capsule?”

“Sort of,” Tia replied. “But more like… a reminder. That we’re all connected.”

Ana gave her a curious look but didn’t press further. Instead, she crouched beside the fire pit, poking at the ashes with a stick. “You know, my mom says I should be paying more attention to stuff like this. History and whatever.”

“She’s right,” Tia said, smiling faintly. “It’s more interesting than you think.”

Ana smirked. “Maybe.” She glanced at Tia. “You coming back tonight? For the fire?”

“Maybe,” Tia said.

As she walked away, she felt lighter. The wind didn’t bite as sharply, and the cold didn’t seem as deep.

That evening, as the first stars blinked into the sky, Tia found herself back at the courtyard. The fire pit was ablaze, surrounded by a small group of students and staff. Mrs. Rivera nodded at her from across the flames, a quiet acknowledgment.

Tia took a seat, letting the warmth seep into her skin. The voices around her blended into a comforting hum, and for the first time, she felt not just part of the campus, but part of the story it was still writing.

The fire crackled as the group’s laughter and conversations filled the chilly air. Tia sat quietly at first, listening. There was something soothing about the way the words overlapped—the easy rhythm of people sharing their thoughts without trying too hard.

Mrs. Rivera caught her eye from across the fire. “So, Tia,” she said, her voice cutting through the chatter but kind, “what’s a grad student like you doing out here with us regular folks?”

The group chuckled, and Tia smiled. “I think I’m realizing I need this,” she said. “A little connection. A reminder that I’m not just living in my head.”

Mrs. Rivera nodded approvingly. “Took me years to figure that out. Glad you’re catching on earlier.”

One of the students, a guy with a knit cap pulled low over his ears, leaned forward. “What are you studying?”

“History,” Tia replied, adjusting her scarf.

He whistled. “That’s deep. Like what kind of history?”

Tia hesitated, the usual weight of her research pressing against her chest. But then she thought of the fire, the threads of connection she was beginning to understand. “I’m studying the personal writings of students who went here in the 1800s. Letters, diaries… that kind of thing.”

A girl with bright blue hair leaned closer. “What’s the coolest thing you’ve found?”

Tia’s smile widened. “There’s this one journal entry from a student who walked through this very courtyard on a winter night. He wrote about how the wind felt like a whisper from the past, and how he imagined all the people who had stood here before him. It made him feel less alone.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, the fire casting long shadows on their faces.

“That’s beautiful,” Ana said softly, surprising Tia with her sincerity.

The guy in the knit cap nodded. “It’s crazy to think about, isn’t it? Like, we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. Even if we don’t realize it.”

Tia felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the fire. “Yeah,” she said. “Exactly.”

***

Hours passed, and the group began to drift away, one by one, until only Tia and Mrs. Rivera remained. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing softly.

Mrs. Rivera broke the silence. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of students come and go over the years. Most of them are in too much of a rush to notice what’s around them. But you… you’re starting to see it, aren’t you?”

Tia nodded slowly. “I think I am. It’s not just about what I’m studying. It’s about… being part of it. Leaving something behind.”

Mrs. Rivera smiled, her face lined with warmth and wisdom. “That’s the secret, Tia. We all leave threads behind. It’s up to us to decide what kind of threads they’ll be.”

Tia stayed until the fire went out, the cold creeping back into the air. As she walked back to her apartment, the campus felt different. It wasn’t just a collection of buildings and paths anymore. It was alive, humming with stories—old and new, hers and others’.

When she reached her room, she opened her laptop again, the cursor blinking patiently. This time, the words came easily.

She wrote not just about the past, but about the present. About fires and connections and the quiet, powerful realization that she wasn’t walking alone. And as the first light of dawn touched her window, she knew she was ready for whatever came next.