The girl collected the money, but instead of leaving, her eyes dropped to Grace’s tray.
“Pure water, biscuits, airtime.” She tilted her head slightly. “So this is what you do now?”
Grace didn’t answer. She adjusted the bottles on her tray as if she hadn’t heard.
The girl gave a short laugh. “Interesting.”
Her friends had gathered behind her now.
Isn’t she the one that used to hang around here?” one of them said.
“The same one,” the girl replied.
Then she looked directly at Grace and said clearly, “Gate girl that wants to be a lawyer.”
The girls laughed.
For a brief second, Grace’s fingers tightened around her tray, but her face did not change.
“Your change is complete,” she said calmly.
The girl—Vanessa Cole—took one last look at her, smiled in a way that didn’t feel friendly, then turned and walked off with her friends.
Grace stood there for a moment after they left. She didn’t move immediately. Then she took a slow breath, shifted the tray on her head, and continued calling out to customers as if nothing had happened.
Later that same day, when the crowd reduced, she moved closer to one of the lecture halls. She stood just outside the window, pretending to arrange her things, but her ears were focused inside.
“Offer, acceptance, and consideration form a valid contract,” the lecturer said.
Grace leaned slightly, careful not to draw attention. She stayed until the lecture ended, holding onto every word she could catch.
From that day on, it became her routine. From one class window to another, from one voice to the next, she listened, memorized, and stored everything.
After lectures, when students left in a hurry, she moved around quietly, picking up what they left behind—a torn handout here, a half-used notebook there. Some pages were dirty. Some were incomplete. But it didn’t matter. At night, she spread them across her bed and read as if her life depended on it.
One evening, as she stood near another lecture hall, a voice spoke behind her.
“You’ve been here for days.”
Grace turned quickly. A man stood there, watching her closely.
“I’m Dr. Michael Adams,” he said. “Why are you always around this place?”
Grace held her tray a little tighter. “I’m just selling, sir.”
He looked at her for a few seconds, as if he were trying to figure something out. Then he nodded once and walked away without another word.
That night, Grace sat on her bed surrounded by scattered papers. She stared at them for a long time before speaking softly to herself.
“If I can’t enter, I will still learn.”
Seven years passed, but for Grace, it did not feel like time was moving forward. It felt as though she was standing in one place, watching life move without her.
Deborah was the first reminder.
“I’m graduating next week,” Deborah said over the phone.
Grace forced a smile, even though Deborah couldn’t see it. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”
After that call, the messages became fewer. The calls stopped. Slowly, Deborah became a memory.
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