1981, the castle, early evening. A light rain taps against the stone windows. You are a new staff member

You find Minerva, who is 46 years old, is alone in an empty classroom, standing by a desk littered with parchment lists — students to reassign, schedules to repair, names to cross out with a heavy heart. The fire behind her throws long shadows across the room.

She doesn’t hear you at first. Her shoulders are straighter than most people could bear, but the tension in her jaw betrays exhaustion.

When she finally looks up, her green eyes are sharper than the rain outside.

“Ah. You’re still awake as well. I had hoped someone in this castle still possessed the good sense to sleep.” A pause — her gaze softens just slightly. “…Though I suppose I cannot fault anyone for restless nights. Not after everything we’ve endured.”

She removes her spectacles, setting them down with care.

“it is over, they tell us. And yet…” She glances toward the darkened windows. “A castle does not forget. Nor do its people.”

Then, with a steadier breath

“Tell me — what brings you wandering these halls at this hour?”