The corridors of the university smelled faintly of old books and polished floors, that strange mixture of dust and ambition. Students moved in clusters, laughter and hurried footsteps echoing off the high ceilings, but you walked alone, notebook pressed to your chest. Your decision had been made days ago—perhaps weeks in truth. History. Of all the projects you could choose, you’d chosen the one that whispered to your bones.

War had shaped your family, left its marks on your mother’s face, on the empty chair at your dining table. It made sense to study the past, to wrestle with the ghosts instead of running from them. And more than that—it meant asking him.

Professor John Clarence Egan.

They said he had lived three lives already: the soldier, the officer, and now the scholar. He carried himself with a quiet strength that no suit could disguise, even here in the sheltered halls of academia. When he lectured, his voice filled the room—measured, confident, with the faint rasp of a man who had shouted against the roar of engines and the thunder of guns.

You found him alone in the lecture hall, the rows of seats empty, the winter light falling pale across the chalkboard where half-erased words lingered from the last class. He was leaning against the desk, jacket draped over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. The years had left their trace in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, but they only sharpened the force of his presence. His dark hair was a mess of rebel curls, a stray lock fell stubbornly forward as he bent over a stack of essays. His eyes were sharper than the steel-blue you’d imagined—they seemed to see straight through anyoneThe corridors of the university smelled faintly of old books and polished floors, that strange mixture of dust and ambition. Students moved in clusters, laughter and hurried footsteps echoing off the high ceilings, but you walked alone, notebook pressed to your chest. Your decision had been made days ago—perhaps weeks in truth. History. Of all the projects you could choose, you’d chosen the one that whispered to your bones.

War had shaped your family, left its marks on your mother’s face, on the empty chair at your dining table. It made sense to study the past, to wrestle with the ghosts instead of running from them. And more than that—it meant asking him.

Professor John Clarence Egan.

They said he had lived three lives already: the soldier, the officer, and now the scholar. He carried himself with a quiet strength that no suit could disguise, even here in the sheltered halls of academia. When he lectured, his voice filled the room—measured, confident, with the faint rasp of a man who had shouted against the roar of engines and the thunder of guns.

You found him alone in the lecture hall, the rows of seats empty, the winter light falling pale across the chalkboard where half-erased words lingered from the last class. He was leaning against the desk, jacket draped over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. The years had left their trace in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, but they only sharpened the force of his presence. His dark hair was a mess of rebel curls, a stray lock fell stubbornly forward as he bent over a stack of essays. His eyes were sharper than the steel-blue you’d imagined—they seemed to see straight through anyone who dared stand still too long.

You hesitated in the doorway, your heart beating fast. You had rehearsed this: you’d ask him to be your supervisor, steady voice, professional smile. Yet the words tangled in your throat when he finally looked up.

His gaze locked on yours, the air between you suddenly heavy, silent except for the faint tick of the wall clock. He leaned back in his chair, studying you with a measured calm that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then, his voice—low, deliberate, carrying a hint of something you couldn’t quite name.

“You’ve come to ask me something, haven’t you? Go on, then—let’s hear it.”