"You know the regulations," she said quietly. "Margins. Fonts. The prohibition of 'unnecessary graphic elements.'"
For three years, Miguel had obeyed. His portadas were gray tombstones of data. He passed, but he never felt pride.
He turned it in. And waited.
Miguel's throat went dry. "I… I can redo it. I have a plain version ready—"
She turned the portada toward him and traced her finger along the ghostly double exposure. "I impose them because most students use decoration as a crutch. A blurry clip art of a book. A drop shadow. A gradient. They do not understand that a cover is an argument. It is the first sentence of your thesis, spoken in the language of space and silence."