A heart beneath the mark

12. Part

On that very same evening, I lay in bed, unable to move. Every inch of my body ached, and my head throbbed with a relentless headache.
It was a cloudy and windy September night, and the howling wind rattled against my dormitory window. The sound was persistent, almost comforting in its rhythm, until I noticed a shape perched outside. At first, I thought it was a stray leaf caught in a draft, but as I squinted through the gloom, I realized it was an owl—a little white one, with enormous, gleaming blue eyes.

For a moment, I was struck by its fragility. It looked out of place, clinging to the edge of the window against the battering wind. I pushed myself upright, despite the protests of my sore limbs, and shuffled to the window. Sliding it open, the wind surged inside, lifting strands of my blonde hair and sweeping them across my face. I closed my eyes, savoring the crisp, wild air that filled the room. It reminded me of home.

Home.

My heart twinged painfully as I thought of my mother. On nights like this, when the wind roared and the air was sharp with autumn's chill, she would stand beside me by our kitchen window. Together, we'd watch the trees sway in the wind, the branches casting ghostly shadows across the lawn.

"Breathe it in, Hannah," she'd always say, her voice soft and steady. "Fresh air is the best cure for a cluttered mind."

I missed her terribly in that moment—her voice, her presence, her way of making everything feel just a little bit easier. Shaking off the melancholy, I turned my attention back to the owl. The little creature shifted, hopping slightly closer to the open window. Its feathers shimmered faintly, catching what little light remained. That's when I noticed the tiny piece of paper clamped between its beak. Curious, I stretched out a hand, palm up, and the owl dropped the note neatly into it. Without a sound, it spread its wings and disappeared into the night, a pale blur against the dark, starless sky.

I unfolded the note, smoothing its creased edges as the wind tugged at the paper. My heart sank as I read the hastily scrawled message:

"Meet me tomorrow at 9 a.m. in the library. Don't be late! M.R."

Of course. Mattheo Riddle.

My first instinct was to roll my eyes so hard I thought they might stick that way. The audacity of him, sending a note via owl—as if this were some grand, dramatic gesture. A simple text message would have sufficed. But no, Mattheo always had to be theatrical.

The wind blew harder, scattering my hair across my face again as I reread the note. My irritation deepened. He hadn't even asked. He never did. Just a demand, as if my time were his to command. My hands clenched the paper tightly, crumpling it slightly. For a moment, I wished I could be invisible to him—unseen, unnoticed, unbothered. My life would be so much simpler if Mattheo Riddle didn't exist in it.

I walked back to my desk, tossing the note down with unnecessary force. The overhead light flickered as I grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper. If Mattheo wanted a response, I would give him one, and it wouldn't be the one he expected. I wrote quickly, my handwriting sharp and deliberate:

"Riddle, I can handle the project on my own. There's no need for us to meet. Please stop sending owls. –H.B."

I folded the note and placed it on the windowsill, half-expecting the owl to reappear. But the night was still. The wind had died down slightly, and only the distant rustle of leaves filled the silence. Sighing, I decided I'd find a way to deliver it tomorrow. Maybe I'd slip it into his bag during class. Maybe I wouldn't bother at all.

Just as I was considering crawling back into bed, a soft whoosh startled me. The little owl had returned, its blue eyes gleaming mischievously in the dark. Before I could even process its arrival, it snatched the note from the windowsill and flew off again.

"Well, that's that," I muttered, relieved to have sent my message.

Fifteen minutes later, as I began to doze off, a sharp tap-tap-tap against the window jolted me awake. My heart leapt, and I rushed to see what had caused the noise. The owl was back again, its beak empty but its eyes locked on me. Another piece of paper was tied to its leg. Groaning, I opened the window just enough to retrieve it.

This time, the note read:

"Nice try, Bennett, but no. I'm not doing the project alone, and neither are you. See you at 9. Don't be late. –M.R."

The nerve of him. My frustration bubbled over, and I slammed the window shut harder than I intended. How could someone be so infuriatingly persistent? All I wanted was to get through this project with minimal interaction, and yet Mattheo seemed determined to drag me into his whirlwind of arrogance and drama.

Exhausted and exasperated, I crawled back into bed, pulling the blanket over my head as if it could shield me from the reality of tomorrow. My mind raced, imagining every possible scenario for how the meeting would go. Would he spend the entire time bossing me around? Would he make some sarcastic remark about my reluctance to meet? Probably both.

I sighed, rolling onto my side and staring at the faint shadows on the wall. My chest tightened as I thought again of my mother's words. A cluttered mind. That's exactly what I had right now—a tangled mess of frustration, exhaustion, and unease. I tried to push it all aside, focusing instead on the sound of the wind outside. Eventually, sleep claimed me, though it was restless and filled with strange dreams of owls, libraries, and Mattheo's infuriating smirk.

Tomorrow couldn't come quickly enough—or maybe, I wished it wouldn't come at all.