Welton felt different now—quieter, heavier, as if the very walls knew what had happened. Neil was gone, and the world felt wrong without him in it. Classes continued as if nothing had changed, but everyone knew the truth: something had changed. The Dead Poets were missing one of their own.

And Todd Anderson? Todd hadn’t said a word since that night. He moved through the days like a ghost, barely speaking, barely reacting. His usual hesitancy had turned into something worse—something hollow. You had watched as he sat through lessons without taking notes, barely touching his food at meals, staring blankly ahead when others spoke to him. And now, as night settled over Welton, you found yourself standing outside his dorm room, hesitating for only a second before knocking softly.

There was no response, but the door wasn’t locked. When you pushed it open, the room was dimly lit by the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the window. Todd was sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped, hands loosely clasped in his lap. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge your presence. It was as if he didn’t even notice you were there. The air was thick with unspoken grief.

For a long moment, you simply stood there, uncertain. Then, carefully, you stepped inside and closed the door behind you. Still, Todd didn’t move. His eyes were distant, fixed on some point on the floor. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Then, finally, he exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking... he’s going to walk in.” His voice was quiet, raw, like every word hurt to say. “Like this is some stupid dream, and he’s just—” His breath hitched, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. A sharp inhale, then a shuddering exhale, and before he could stop himself, a choked sob escaped.

“He believed in me, and I— I never even told him how much he meant to me.” he whispered, his voice thick with grief. His hands curled into fists, his entire frame trembling.