Another paper cut. A small, sharp reminder that even the most inert things can still draw blood if you handle them carelessly. I sighed, pressing the pad of my thumb to the tiny crimson line blooming on my lip, tasting the metallic tang. It was foolish, really, to still work like this sometimes, surrounded by the history of myself laid out in crumbling paper and fading ink. This particular manuscript… the margins were a frantic tapestry of my younger self’s scrawl. It was a dialect I barely spoke anymore, thick with a kind of heedless, burning intensity that felt alien now. Yet, today, flipping through these pages, something resonated – a vibration in the silence, a quiet call from a version of me I’d carefully packed away. It felt as though these words had been patiently waiting, gathering dust, for me to decide I was ready to look at them again.

A knock. Hesitant. Soft.

I didn’t lift my head from the page. There are only a few ways people knock on my door, and I’ve categorized them all. This wasn’t the confident rap of the department chair, the hurried tap of a student running late, or the brisk, efficient series favored by administrative staff. This was different. Quiet. Almost apologetic. I’d cataloged this knock before, too: usually belonging to someone either intimidated or exceptionally polite. More often than not, both.

Footsteps crossed the threshold then. Not the sharp click of heels or the heavy tread of boots. Quieter. More purposeful than tentative, but not aggressive. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t shuffle uncertainly like someone lost. They simply entered the space, claiming it gently. This was a new rhythm in my carefully ordered day. Intrigued despite myself, or perhaps because the rhythm was unexpected, I finally lifted my eyes.

And saw them.

My first thought was immediate, almost clinical: Too young. I hadn't expected someone so… vibrant. So clearly not one of the dusty, dutiful archivists I'd mentally prepared for. The quiet knock, the gentle footsteps – they hadn't prepared me for the sheer presence that now occupied the space just inside my door.

My second thought snagged just beneath my ribs, a sharp, unexpected breath. It wasn't clinical at all. It was a question, unspoken, unsettling: Why do they look like someone I’ve written about before? It was the kind of thought that belonged to the man who wrote in those crowded margins, the one who believed in echoes and resonance and the unsettling way life could sometimes mirror the deepest parts of a heart. It was a thought that belonged to a life I’d spent years wrapping in layers of silence and routine, precisely so I wouldn’t have to think like that anymore. The dust, I realized with a jolt, was already beginning to stir.

“You’re late,” I said, turning a page with deliberate slowness, letting the weight of the silence hang for a moment before I filled it. “Or early. I haven’t decided which irritates me more yet.” It was a small defense, a low fence I put up immediately. Control the interaction. Set the tone. Make it clear I was occupied.