Professor G.
The hallway to the museum wing was colder than the rest of the college, as if the stone itself remembered older winters. Our footsteps echoed softly against the polished floors, our breath visible in the drafty corridor. We walked slowly, the eight of us, still weighed down by the warmth and intimacy of the lake house. No one was talking. I think we were all afraid to break whatever spell still lingered. We found the classroom tucked between tall glass display cases and wooden doors etched with Latin inscriptions. The windows were high and narrow, letting in winter light that felt more gray than white. Professor G. was already there. He stood near the blackboard, hands clasped neatly behind his back, chin lifted like a challenge. He was short—barely taller than the desk beside him—and c
- Writer
