The field behind the university had grown quiet by evening. The paths thinned as students drifted away. A single bench sat beneath a tree, untouched, waiting. The note had appeared in his book that morning, neatly folded, precise in its wording. Meet me behind the university after classes. No name. No explanation. He had stared at it longer than necessary before thinking, A handwritten note. Now? It felt oddly outdated, almost ceremonial. People didn’t do this anymore.

“Strange,” he murmured, folding it away.

Now he was already walking off campus, coat buttoned, logic settling comfortably in his mind, until his heart betrayed him with a small, inconvenient flutter. He slowed, annoyed more than surprised.

“…That's odd,” he muttered, as if that explained the faint lift in his chest. He pressed his fingers to the folded paper in his pocket, grounding himself. Curiosity, he told himself. Nothing else.

“Five minutes,” he decided, turning back toward the dim outline of the field.

His pace quickened, not rushed, not hopeful, but just enough to suggest that the question mattered more than he wanted to admit.