Borrowed Time

The rain in Edinburgh fell sideways.

Asha learned this on her first morning, stepping out of her rented flat on Marchmont Road with an umbrella angled against the wind, only to have the water find her anyway—sliding beneath her collar, misting her glasses, turning the gray stone buildings into watercolor smudges.

By the time she reached the university archives, she was damp in places she hadn't known could get damp.

"You'll want a proper mac," said the woman at the front desk, barely glancing up. "Umbrellas are for tourists."

Asha added it to her mental list: mac, waterproof shoes, possibly gills. Three months. She could survive three months of sideways rain.

The archives were housed in an old building that smelled of dust and central heating and centuries of accumulated knowledge. Her fellowship had secured her a carrel in the reading room—a small wooden desk beneath a window that looked out over a courtyard where students hunched against the weather. She had eighty-seven days to complete her research on colonial-era medical practices in South Asia, cross-reference the university's extensive collection of East India Company records, and produce a paper that would secure her tenure track position back in Boston.

Eighty-seven days. Then home to her apartment, her department, her life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from David: How's Scotland? Miss you already.

She typed back: Wet. Miss you too.

It wasn't entirely a lie. She did miss him—missed the comfortable routine of their three-year relationship, the Sunday brunches and shared Netflix queue, the way he always remembered to pick up her dry cleaning. David was reliable. Predictable. Safe.

She'd accepted his ring six months ago. A practical proposal over dinner at their favorite restaurant, complete with a spreadsheet of projected expenses for the wedding. I've run the numbers, he'd said, and I think we should aim for October. Best weather, lowest venue costs.

She'd said yes because saying yes was logical. Because after three years, marriage was the next step. Because David was exactly the kind of man she'd always planned to end up with—stable, successful, someone who understood that her career came first.

The ring sat in her jewelry box back in Boston. Too risky to wear while handling archival documents, she'd told him. He'd understood. David always understood.

Asha pulled out her laptop and began cataloging the documents she needed to request. The work was slow, meticulous, exactly the kind of intellectual challenge she craved. By noon, she'd filled three pages of notes and forgotten about the rain entirely.

"Dr. Patel?"

She looked up to find a man standing at the edge of her carrel. Tall, with dark hair that curled slightly at his temples and eyes the color of Edinburg...