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Mavi had always been independent. As long as she could remember she had bounced out of bed with a plan for the day and the excitement to go after it. Of course, when she was a little girl, this just meant that she had to scale a tree to the top or sneak an extra cupcake behind the back of Sister Bertha in the kitchen. The shimmering magic of childhood adventure had begun to fade in her late teens and routine was the one thing that kept her from giving up on her dream of supporting herself and becoming a reporter. Sometimes, it was like two polar opposites pulled inside her: the need to be on her own and the need to understand other people. Observing from a distance often seemed like the best compromise to her feelings. While Mavi could force herself to socialize, she'd never enjoyed parties and especially the vapid ones and displays of wealth she was surrounded by back in New York. Evermore was a fresh breath of air, however, she couldn't deny that soon she would have to find a paying job or her return to the big apple would be imminent.
The articles she'd begun to write about Evermore were more of a hobby. They were research and deep dives into the history surrounding the town and particularly, the valkryie that lived there. Mavi hadn't yet come to understand her heritage, but writing was cathartic and logic was a place her brain could hide when the new research lead to confusing leads or dead-ends.
The Evermore Daily was the main source of printed news in the city and although she knew that it was old-school, Mavi loved the smell of newspapers. They reminded her of happier times in the abbesses' library where stale coffee, old books, and dust had become her constant babysitter. Monday morning at 11 a.m. The time had been repeating in her head all weekend as the one chance she would have at nailing her interview. The regular barrage of sticky notes was cemented to her laptop as she studied in the office hallway before being escorted into a dimly lit office which was nothing like the glass skyscraper she'd interviewed in for her mentorship in on the east coast. This was small town living.
Her feet tapped on the floor in a pattern to match the slow jazz pouring from the radio.
The clock read.
I've never known a reporter to be late.
It had taken years of practice to turn her procrastination and scattered brain into something that could function well in a work place and today, she'd arrived three minutes early.
I think I could like it here.