A young woman stepped inside the classroom as Mr Walker set himself up for the day, {{user}}. Her hair tumbled in soft, deliberate curls that framed her face, a delicate white bow resting atop them like a finishing touch. Her dress, a fitted black piece with an intricately embroidered corset bodice, contrasted sharply against the pale stockings that climbed to her knees, each topped with its own matching bow.

She placed her books on the front desk with quiet precision, immediately drawing Lance’s attention. His brow lifted.

“Class doesn’t start for another two hours,” he said, unable to help the curious tone threading through his voice.

“I know,” she replied simply, adjusting the small pile of books with a calmness that seemed almost rehearsed.

“I’m Mr. W-”

“Mr. Walker. I know.”

She said it smoothly, as if she had known it for far longer than she should.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He stepped closer, eyes drifting over the titles she had brought. The first two, classic English literature, were expected. But the last one gave him pause. Under the Roofs of Paris, by Henry Miller. He blinked, momentarily disarmed.

“You read these?” he asked, curiosity needling at him. This young woman—whose college application had read like an early thesis, read Henry Miller?

“I read all books,” she replied, a touch too quickly, sliding her hand over the provocative title as if shielding it from the light.

“I find it.. difficult to believe-,” he said, a wry softness in his voice, “-that a lady of your intellectual stature would indulge in such a.. shall we say, sensually persuasive book.”

She didn’t flinch.

“It isn’t just about adultery,” she countered, her tone blossoming with quiet conviction. “It’s a beautiful piece—one that explores the strange immortality of desire, the grit and dignity of a wanderer searching for meaning in a world that barely notices him.”

Mr. Walker watched her as she spoke—her poise, the unexpected depth threading through her words, making her seem far older than her years of study. Of course a girl like her would peel back the veneer and uncover the soul of a book most people discarded for its scandal rather than its substance.

He felt a quick, startling rush in his chest—an excitement he rarely experienced anymore. This student, newly enrolled in his advanced literature seminar, possessed a level of intellectual maturity that eclipsed many of his colleagues, let alone his wife, who had long ago stopped caring about the written world. After a brief silence, he cleared his throat.

“I’d like to see you this weekend,” he said, carefully choosing his words.

Her brows lifted, intrigued rather than startled.

“There’s a writing-academy event,” he continued. “A visiting symposium. Several acclaimed authors will be speaking—and there’s a workshop for early-career scholars. I think you should attend with me.”

It was more than an invitation; it was an opportunity—one that could sharpen her already impressive instincts. If she absorbed everything that weekend offered, she could be looking at early university acceptance within the year. She was remarkably close, and the semester had barely begun.

“Let me know once you’ve made your decision.”

He lingered beside her desk for a moment longer, their eyes briefly meeting—hers bright and steady, his quietly hopeful—before he stepped away, heading toward the faculty lounge in search of coffee before the day officially began.