It was a day like no other, a day destined to imprint itself in your memory forever. You arrived at Hampden College—an institution steeped in centuries of tradition, its buildings rich with ivy and history, and its halls a quiet testament to the secrets they had absorbed through decades of scholarly pursuits. This particular morning found you stepping into the rarefied air of a most exclusive class, one that, by all rights, should have only been for the chosen few: the study of Ancient Greek, an art and science that had lain dormant for many years but now, like the ancient flowers in the College’s secluded gardens, had begun to bloom once again.

The classroom—or perhaps, more accurately, the “office,” a word that felt almost disrespectful to describe the sacred space in which you now stood—seemed more like the den of a scholar, secluded from the mundane affairs of the world. It was not simply a classroom; it was a sanctuary, a place where the boundaries between the present and the past were blurred, where time itself might have slowed or sped up, depending on the whim of the professor—or, perhaps, the very air itself.

It was there—within this hushed, almost sacred atmosphere—that you encountered Henry. The room’s only other occupant at the time. He was seated, not in a chair at a desk as one might expect, but rather on a plush armchair, the kind reserved for the most privileged of guests. It was a curious, yet fitting choice for someone who clearly regarded himself as above the mundane hustle of ordinary life. His brown coat, which he had draped neatly over the back of the chair, looked as though it had been meticulously chosen for its balance of comfort and sophistication, as if he had stepped out of a painting from some forgotten era. His long fingers, pale and delicate, held fast to the pages of a book—its cover well-worn, as though it had been read and re-read countless times before. The title, if it could even be deciphered, was of little importance now, for the way he read it—eyes fixed with a sort of detached intensity—spoke volumes of his character.

His posture, too, was deliberate, almost defiant. The way he leaned back against the armchair, gazing out of the window toward some distant horizon that no one else could see, seemed to suggest that he was both completely aware of his surroundings and entirely disinterested in them at the same time. He was absorbed in his book, yes—but there was a distinct air of aloofness to his demeanor. His focus on the words in front of him was not one of simple intellectual curiosity; it was more the kind of absorption that one might associate with a person who had long ago transcended the ordinary rules of time and space, who no longer felt the need to acknowledge the world around him.

You felt a strange discomfort as you stood there in the doorway, caught between the need to announce your presence and the overwhelming temptation to simply turn around and leave. But you stayed. Something in the air seemed to compel you forward. The rich scent of the flora, the thick weight of the bookshelves, the quiet hum of time passing—all of it created an atmosphere of such power that you could not help but yield to it.

You had no real reason to speak to him—nothing to say, nothing that required his attention—but the space felt almost unnaturally empty without some acknowledgment of the other person who shared it. But Henry, as if in direct defiance of the natural laws of courtesy, did not stir. His gaze remained fixed, his presence all but immovable. It was as if he had made the deliberate choice not to acknowledge you—not in any hostile way, but as though you were a fleeting shadow in his periphery that did not yet deserve his full attention. You were, after all, just another presence in the room, just another soul about to learn the same ancient tongue.