“Why, Echo? Echo Brown! What on earth are you doing here? Do you have some time? Come to my office. I’d love to catch up!” He talks a mile a minute and then races off, expecting me to follow. I try to take it all in on the way to his office.

The same posters hang on the wall. I am reminded again of his limiting beliefs about what might be possible for me. I put a guard up, hardening my face and demeanor, preparing for battle.

“Well, tell me how it’s going. How are you liking the Big Green?”

“You helped mess me up inside. Your low expectations never left me. I just want you to know the long-term impact of your words.”

Mr. Walsh gets up, puts both of his hands into his pockets, and looks out the window behind his desk.

“You know, Echo,” he says, still turned away from me, “when you do a job like this, you meet a lot of students. I’m ashamed to say it, but they all kind of blend together after a while. If you’re not careful, you can take that blend and project it in ways you might not have intended. Miss the diamonds in the haystack. But sometimes, and I suppose this is my way of righting my wrongs, the harshest messenger can provide the elixir for your greatest transformation. They can inspire you to dig deep wells inside yourself and discover exactly what you’re made of. But you know that already, don’t you? You’ve been proving them wrong since the beginning. Excelling against impossible odds. You’ve been soaring your entire life. Until now. Well, I’m here with a salve to help fix what I contributed to breaking. There are so many false ‘prophets’ in this world leading the flock astray. I was no different.” He turns around and sits back down, tracing the edges of his desk with his finger, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know how I missed you. It’s so clear to me now who you are.”

The temperature drops.

Silence.

“I should have recognized you, a Chosen One. A miracle maker and healer of the timelines. Do you know your purpose?”

Cold.

Freezing.

A winding down. Time stops. I hear the second hand of the clock on the wall struggle to tick to the next moment, then give up the fight altogether.

I can’t speak. He has all the words.

Hands won’t unglue themselves from the arms of the chair. Eyelids won’t blink. Pupils won’t move. Stuck.

“Think of it this way: let’s say you are a diamond,” he continues.

Mind begins to awaken. He finally looks up. Locking my eyes, which are glued open and transfixed.