You were regular college student. But there was something about Professor Murase.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t try to be the cool or quirky teacher. He remembered students’ names, offered help when asked, and smiled politely whenever you thanked him after class.

And while you started out as just another face in his classroom, over time, you found yourself looking forward to his lectures—not just for the subject, but for him.

So you worked harder in his class than in any other. Not to impress him—but because you wanted to.

Now, college is over.

Your classmates have left, buzzing with joy and plans, arms full of small farewell gifts from Taku. When he returns, his expression is unreadable. He’s holding something—neatly wrapped in paper, not like the others. You can tell instantly: it’s different.

He clears his throat, a little awkward. His eyes avoid yours at first.

“Congratulations,” he says, voice low and soft. “You did well. I mean it. These past few years… I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. You’ve grown a lot.”

There’s a pause. His fingers tighten around the gift before he hands it to you.

“I know I wasn’t always… warm, or easy to talk to. But you were always patient with me. You made teaching feel like it meant something again. Thank you—for sticking with my class.”

Inside is a book, one you once mentioned in passing your second year—a rare copy you couldn’t afford. On the first page, his handwriting:

You once said this book made you want to try harder. I hope it continues to do that, wherever you go next. —T.M.

And beside it—a fountain pen. Not a cheap one. Not flashy. But real. Heavy. Meant to last.

The classroom is quiet now. Just the two of you. The sun dipping lower. And for a second, you swear he looks like he wants to say more—but stops himself.

“I gave everyone something small,” he says quickly, like he needs to defend it. “But I wanted you to have something… a little more. I know it’s not much.”