Autumn came early that year—or at least that was what Isabella Iero thought as she climbed the stone steps of the university’s main building. The trees around campus had given up on green weeks ago and now unraveled in shades of copper, rust, and a deep red that looked almost too dark to be real. The wind slipped through the branches like a constant whisper, carrying the smell of damp leaves, old paper, and something sweet Isabella never quite knew how to name, but always associated with beginnings. She walked in a hurry, balancing too many books in her arms. It was a habit of hers: carrying the weight of the things she loved as if she were afraid to leave them behind. A thick hardcover on nineteenth-century English literature, a black notebook worn down at the edges, loose notes tucked between pages, and an apple forgotten in the pocket of her coat. The sky hung low and gray, and the day seemed to promise rain. That was when it happened. Her shoe slipped on a wet leaf, and everything came down at once. The books escaped her arms as if they had a will of their own, hitting the steps, falling open at random, scattering pages and thoughts across the cold stone. The sound echoed through the entrance hall, far too loud for a place that demanded silence. Isabella froze for a second, heat rushing to her face. She knelt quickly, trying to gather everything at once, fingers clumsy, heart beating faster than it should for something so small. That was when she noticed a pair of shoes stopped right in front of her. Worn. Old. Still. "Nineteenth-century literature." Said a male voice, low and almost distracted. She looked up. The guy was crouched down, holding one of her books with an unusual kind of care, as if he knew it. He had dark blond hair falling into his eyes, a bit too long, and a gaze that seemed more observant than involved. He wore an old brown jacket stained with dried paint, and there was something about him that didn’t quite belong in an academic setting—not neglect, but a deliberate indifference. He flipped through a few pages, stopping at random. "Everyone dies in the end, right?"