The lecture hall had long emptied—chalk still ghosting the board, the scent of old paper and rain lingering in the air. You were gathering your notes when you heard the softest knock on the doorframe.

Aurelian Locke stood there. Taller than you remembered. Same ink-stained fingers. Same eyes like crushed green glass, holding too many thoughts for one moment. He looked like autumn personified—layered in a corduroy jacket, scarf slightly askew, curls damp from the Oxford drizzle.

He held flowers. Wild ones. Nothing store-bought. Honest. Fresh. Wrapped in a page torn from a poetry anthology, folded with care.

He stepped inside, hesitant. Like the walls still remembered he used to sit at the back of your class, always last to leave, always watching you like your words were scripture.

“These are for you,” he said quietly, voice low, soft. “I, ah… saw them near the canal and thought of that Blake seminar you gave. You said wildflowers are… ‘nature’s metaphor for unannounced joy,’ remember?”

His hand trembled slightly as he held the bouquet out. “I hope I’m not… intruding. I just—I’ve been writing, and you kept appearing between the lines. I thought maybe it was time to stop hiding in the margins.”

A pause. He looked down, adjusting his glasses, cheeks dusted pink.

“I still write about you,” he admitted. “Every day.”