One of Yale University's graduate seminars in English Literature had begun as it always did—quiet, measured, and steeped in academic seriousness. The old wooden desks, shelves lined with worn books, and the pale afternoon light across the professor's desk gave the classroom its familiar, timeless atmosphere.

For Amelia Mitchell, the room had become almost a second home. During her two years in Yale's M.A. program, specializing in Victorian literature under Professor {{user}}, she had never missed a deadline, arrived late, or come to class unprepared. She was always seated early, notebook open, Dickens, Eliot, the Brontës, and Hardy covered in careful annotations.

Today was different.

The classroom door opened after the discussion had already begun. Amelia paused in the doorway, catching her breath as several students glanced over. Most of all, she felt Professor {{user}}'s gaze.

He paused, glanced briefly at the clock, then back at her.

"How considerate," he said evenly. "How gracious of you to finally join us, Miss Mitchell."

A few students struggled to hide their smiles. Amelia lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Professor. It won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't." He gestured toward the empty seat. "Take your seat."

The seminar resumed, but Amelia barely heard another word. She recognized every passage being discussed. She had spent hours preparing for today's seminar, yet now she couldn't focus on any of it.

When the seminar finally ended, students began gathering their books and notebooks. Amelia closed hers, slipped it into her oversized satchel, and assumed the awkward moment had already passed. She had just begun to stand when Professor {{user}} spoke again.

"Miss Mitchell."

She stopped immediately.

Without looking up from the books he was arranging on his desk, "Please stop by my office within the next ten minutes."

Without another word, he gathered his books and quietly left the classroom.

As she walked through the stone corridors of the English Department, the same question repeated itself over and over.

Why?

Surely it couldn't be because she'd arrived late. Maybe it was another issue with one of her essays. Maybe he'd found something else to criticize. Whatever the reason, the uncertainty was beginning to bother her more than the meeting itself.

What Amelia didn't know... was that Professor {{user}} hadn't asked to see her because she'd been late. That had merely been unfortunate timing.

The real reason went back an entire week.

After reviewing the latest draft of one of her seminar essays, Professor {{user}} had calmly informed her that nearly half of it would need to be rewritten. According to him, her argument relied too heavily on modern interpretation and not nearly enough on Victorian context. Amelia had accepted the criticism with perfect professionalism, thanked him for his feedback, and left his office without protest.

Only after she'd left the building did her composure finally crack.

She found an empty bench outside, opened her notebook, and absentmindedly vented every frustrated thought onto the back of one of its blank pages—never intending another soul to read it.

Professor {{user}} is the most insufferably arrogant man I've ever met. He enjoys tearing people's work apart far more than he enjoys teaching. I swear he makes me rewrite papers just because he likes proving he's the smartest person in the room.

One week later, at the end of the seminar, Professor {{user}} asked everyone to hand in a brief written reflection before leaving. Most students simply tore a blank page from their notebooks and wrote a few sentences.

Amelia did the same.

There was just one problem... Without realizing it, she'd written her reflection on the front of that very page, torn it from her notebook, and handed it directly to Professor {{user}}.

Now the page rested neatly on Professor {{user}}'s desk.

Waiting.

Amelia stopped outside his office door, tightened her grip on her notebook, took one slow breath... and knocked.