Page 2 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I sink into my seat, wishing I could disappear.
Some of my classmates scoff, and it gets stuck in my throat. Some lean in, making it impossible for me to relax.
But one person stands out from the rest. Someone with an answer they aren’t ready to share; but I can feel its weight, the steadiness behind the unease. The conviction they feel for the topic.
I reach for it.
For Azaire. His emotions don’t spike or sting—they root, like a tree that stands no matter the storm. And when I lean toward him, it’s not just for relief; it’s instinct. Like moss stretching toward a crack in the cave ceiling, desperate for light.
His calm doesn’t make my palms sweat and my eyes twitch. It simply settles.
“Then no,” I answer, my heart pounding like I’m prey and not a person. “If I am composed of things beyond my control, then there is no free will.”
“And of the gods?” the professor goads.
“I’ve yet to decide.”
If the gods are cruel, or just careless.
If life is punishment disguised as choice.
If the gods shaped me, then they gave me this power. They either wanted me to struggle or suffer. Or maybe they weren’t paying attention at all.
But either way, they must not have liked what they made.
“It’s not a decision,” he says. “It’s a belief. What do you believe?”
My arms shake, both from the opinions of others and my own unraveling. “I believe it’s possible.”
“Whatis possible, Ms. Estridon?”
“That they shape us.”
“And what does that mean?”
“That… we aren’t free?”
The room stings—relief, dread, judgment. Everyone’s hiding behind their own answers, either thankful they’re not in my position or worried they’ll be next. It sets off a sequence of contradictions in my bones. Every limb reaches in a different direction, stretching me apart thoroughly.
I don’t know what I am.
“You made your choice today, did you not?” the professor asks. “You chose to sit in this class, whether you knew you’d enjoy it or hate it. Why? Why do you make the choices that you do? What has shaped you?”
Shaped me? Like I’m clay in a mold.
I am.
“I’m here because I have to be,” I say, choosing logic over emotion. “I’m enrolled.”
“You don’t have to do anything. That’s a belief.”
My torso tightens, unable to take in air. Calista’s emotion grows heavier—not because she cares about the topic. Only because she can’t let go of her future.
“There’s no free will. Is that what you wish for me to say?” I ask.
“I only wish for the truth.” The professor’s voice is steady. But not steady enough to calm me.
The truth has never been on my side. Nothing has. Not this room of onlookers—critiquing, watching, but never feeling. Not like I do.
