The last lecture of the day ended at half past four.
Fiora knew this not because she had checked the time but because the light changed. It always changed at half past four in autumn — softening from sharp afternoon gold into something warmer and more forgiving, the kind of light that made even ordinary things look like they were worth remembering. She had noticed it on her walk in that morning and filed it away the way she filed everything away — quietly, carefully, in the part of herself that was always half artist even when she was trying to just be a person.
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