Page 7 of Legacy Found

"That's a professor? I want in. Sign me up right now."

But I'm not really listening. I've looked down. The folder's warm from my hands.

Call me, I keep strange hours.

I run my thumb along the seal, the same way I did with the envelope on my counter three days ago — the one I still haven't opened.

I told him I'd read it just to get him to leave, but I realize I'm actually considering opening it.

Chapter four

Jessica

The packet is exactly where I left it, on the counter beside the fruit bowl, Jon's identical folder stacked on top, a little tower of things I've aggressively ignored.

"Five minutes," I tell it. "I'll skim you, confirm you're nonsense, and then we're breaking up."

I make tea first, because procrastination, then pull the folder over intending to be disappointed. I'm not. It's gorgeous — heavy matte pages, deep forest and cream, that mountain-and-crescent crest embossed so it catches the light. It opens like an expensive book.

The welcome letter is warm, less stiff than the envelopes: an offer like this arrives without warning, it says, and the orientation exists precisely because they don't expect anyone to commit to a place they've never seen. Come look, then decide. There's a scholarship breakdown — tuition, housing, meals, travel, and a personal stipend listed with a number that makes me choke on my tea. An itinerary detailed in a way scams never are: a week, guided tours, sessions on the academy's history, free time, a closing day where you decide whether to enroll or go home. The accommodations are an old castle out on the land called Lufgard, described almost apologetically as "more like camping indoors than a hotel," which sounds like a compliment in my mind.

And the mountains. God, the mountains. Page after page of Swiss Alps that don't look real — snow-dusted peaks, meadows stitched with wildflowers, a lake so clear it's basically a mirror. There's a trail switchbacking up a ridge, and I lean closer, the way I did with that paw print, like I could climb into the picture if I tried hard enough.

Near the back, a small photo of Professor Jon Matthias — not smiling, patient and a little amused, like a man who knew he'd end up on my counter. I move on quickly. I am not thinking about the forearms. Closed matter.

Then I go hunting for the catch, because there's always a catch — the asterisk, the dagger, the "nominal administrative fee" buried in smaller type at the back. I read the FAQ twice. I check the inside cover. I check for the fine print that turns free into forty thousand pounds and a kidney.

There isn't one.

"Where's the catch," I say out loud, to my empty kitchen. My five minutes turned into an hour and a half, my tea's gone stone cold, and I've found nothing wrong with this on paper — which somehow bothers me more than if I had.

I should be focused on the too-good-to-be-true aspect, but I’m not. You cannot fake that packet. Nobody spends that kind of money on embossing and professional photography to lure in one hiking-store clerk with a sprained ankle and a leopard gecko. Scammers cast wide, cheap nets; they don't hand-deliver a folder to one person in England. And Jon's line — we're intentionally private, we prefer personal recruitment — suddenly sounds less like a dodge and more like the kind of old money that says, if you have to look us up, you were never getting in.

I pull the packet back toward me. I've wanted to see Switzerland since I was a kid drawing crooked peaks in my homework margins. "If this is a scam," I tell the photos, "it's the prettiest one I've ever seen." And then I catch myself tracing that switchbacking trail, wondering what's over the ridge, half-planning which layers I'd pack — and I shut the folder like it burned me. "Absolutely not. We are not imagining the hiking. That's how they get you."

Teeth brushed, lights off, I check my horoscope one last time.

Sagittarius. The universe is holding a door open. Say yes to the unexpected — a change of scenery may be exactly what your spirit needs.

I stare at it.

"Seriously?"

Because come on. A mysterious scholarship. Switzerland. A professor showing up at my job. And now the universe is holding a door open?

I read it again, slower this time.

Maybe this is a sign.

Maybe the universe has been trying to shove me through this particular door for two weeks, and I've been standing on the other side with my arms crossed.

"Okay," I whisper to the ceiling. "I hear you."

And I laugh at myself.

I call Jon the next morning.

He picks up on the second ring. "Jessica." Not a question. He sounds like he's smiling, damn him.