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  Elara’s room looked less like a dorm and more like the war room of a small but very chaotic creative agency. Open laptops glowed from every surface, snack wrappers littered the coffee table, and the faint scent of honey chestnuts still lingered in the air like a stubborn festival ghost. The floor was claimed by pillows and backpacks, while the bed had long been surrendered to Camille’s notes and Naomi’s cardigan pile.

  Luca, legs stretched across the rug, had his laptop plugged into the shared screen. “Okay, okay, are you guys ready for the masterpiece?” he announced, dragging the timeline to the start. “This is the exclusive, never-before-seen behind-the-scenes footage of the greatest student documentary ever made.”

  “More like the most over-edited student breakdown in recorded history,” Mira muttered, nursing a warm mug of tea.

  The video began. Music swelled dramatically.

  A soft, ethereal shot appeared: a hand reaching down to collect a perfect, split-open chestnut from a bed of golden leaves.

  “Look at that shot!” Luca declared proudly. “Elegance. Emotion. Autumn incarnate.”

  “Lies,” Mira said flatly. “That hand? Was bleeding.”

  Naomi giggled behind her sleeve.

  Camille looked up from her laptop. “Wait, is this the take before or after Mira stabbed herself on the chestnut needle?”

  “Definitely before the swearing,” Elara chimed in from her desk, where she was cross-referencing booth revenue with ingredient costs.

  The video paused, and cut sharply to raw footage: Mira yelping, dropping the chestnut, and waving her hand like it had caught fire.

  “OW, NOPE, no. They should call these forest caltrops!” her voice rang out. Then: “Naomi! Tongs! Emergency tongs!”

  Luca was laughing so hard he had to clutch the edge of the bed.

  “You included that?!” Mira gasped, half rising from her seat.

  “You said you wanted realism!” Luca wheezed.

  “I swear to the forest gods,” Mira said with dangerous calm, “if you leak this footage to anyone, I will end you. Our friendship will die. You will be the first filmmaker murdered by chestnut.”

  Camille leaned over. “Can I quote that?”

  “No.”

  The next clip started: Elara and Mira standing under the chestnut tree, sunlight flickering beautifully through the branches.

  “It’s so poetic,” Naomi whispered.

  Then, Luca’s voice off-camera: “Okay, one more time. But slower. Like… soulful. Pretend you’re thinking about the nature of time.”

  Mira’s on-screen self turned slightly toward the camera. “Luca, we’ve done this shot six times.”

  Elara: “My back hurts.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Luca: “We need emotion!”

  Elara: “I need lumbar support!”

  Back in the room, Elara turned slowly in her swivel chair to face him. “Luca.”

  He raised both hands. “In my defense, I suffer for my art.”

  “You’re about to suffer for real,” she muttered.

  Next came the discussion recording, filmed late one night in Elara’s room. Mira, curled in a blanket, had her legs tucked up and a pencil between her teeth.

  “So,” she was saying, “chestnuts fall only when they’re ready. Not like summer fruit. You don’t pick them. You wait. I think that’s the message.”

  Camille, sitting across from her, looked up from her notebook. “Wait, say that again, but slower. I want to rewrite it like it’s engraved on a stone somewhere.”

  Elara, meanwhile, was in the background, in pajama pants and a loose shirt, fully focused on her spreadsheets.

  At one point, the camera zoomed slightly as she casually scratched her nose, too casually.

  “Enhance,” Luca whispered like a villain.

  “Luca,” Elara said without turning, “if I see that scene in the final cut, I will remove your editing privileges. With force.”

  Mira burst out laughing. “Honestly worth it.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Luca said. “I have footage. I have receipts.”

  The video paused again, freezing on Elara’s intensely focused face mid-glare.

  Camille leaned toward the screen. “What’s even better is that you were in the kitchen for all of this.”

  As if on cue, the next clip began: Naomi in the dorm kitchen, in her oversized “flour power” apron, humming softly as she folded batter into neat cups. She moved with gentle precision, brow furrowed, hair pulled back with a pale ribbon.

  The golden hour light filtered in through the tiny kitchen window, making the honey glisten as she drizzled it onto the chestnut cake tray.

  Behind her, Elias leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully lining the parchment trays.

  He said nothing, but handed her utensils, whisk, spoon, measuring cup, always before she had to ask.

  “He’s got the sous-chef aura,” Luca said knowingly.

  “Stop,” Naomi said instantly, cheeks already pink.

  Camille turned to Elias, who sat in the corner flipping lazily through his notes. “So when’s the wedding?”

  Elara, still scribbling at her desk, deadpanned, “Can we print themed invoices?”

  “I’m going to the lounge,” Elias muttered, not moving an inch.

  Naomi’s blush deepened, but she didn’t stop smiling as she adjusted the video playback. “He did help. A lot. I wouldn’t have finished the cakes on time without him.”

  “Helper boyfriend energy,” Valeria said without looking up from where she was sorting leftover flyers. “Rare, valuable.”

  “We’re not!” Naomi began, then covered her face.

  Mira leaned over from the beanbag, voice teasing but soft. “Yet.”

  The room giggled, but it was a light, easy kind of teasing, the kind that settled gently and didn’t push, like a blanket being tossed over sleeping shoulders.

  Luca grinned, “Anyway. Back to the star of the wrapocalypse.”

  The next clip began: Mira at the table, surrounded by chaos, hair falling from her braid, tongue sticking slightly out in concentration as she tried, and failed, to wrap chestnuts in parchment.

  One bundle unraveled like an insult. Another crumpled before she could fold it. Her frustration grew with each failed knot.

  “Where is Naomi’s baking precision when I need it?” Mira muttered.

  “I said I would help after the cakes!” Naomi chirped from offscreen.

  “Elara’s at class. Camille refuses to touch twine. Valeria volunteered for dishes only. This is how I die.”

  Cut to: a pile of sad, crumpled chestnut bundles.

  “Heroic,” Camille whispered. “Tragic.”

  Then: a slow, dramatic pan of the one perfect parcel, tied in an elegant twist of twine, nestled on a silk napkin.

  “THAT,” Mira said in the present, pointing at the screen, “was attempt number thirty-two.”

  “Worth it,” Elara added, sipping tea. “You made chestnut origami.”

  Camille typed something into her notes. “The story of a girl, a broken thumb, and a dream.”

  Everyone in the room was laughing now, a tangled pile of limbs, mugs, and festival leftovers. The tension of the last few weeks, gossip, fame, exhaustion, finally cracking into laughter and the warmth of being in a room full of people who had done something together, who had survived it, and who were still here, still bickering, still laughing.

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