SAINT-VÉRAN

ROOM 317

The dorm assignments are posted after dinner.

I know this because half the dining hall empties at once.

Apparently, getting your room assignment at Saint-Véran is treated with the same seriousness as receiving university results.

Students abandon unfinished meals.

Someone actually runs.

I walk behind everyone else.

I don’t run for anything.

Especially not toward a piece of paper taped to a wall.

The corridor outside the administration office is crowded when I arrive.

Students are pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath an enormous framed portrait of some dead Saint-Véran alumnus who looks as though he hasn’t smiled since 1894.

“Move.”

“Let me see.”

“Which floor?”

“Who am I with?”

“Please don’t let it be him.”

“Yes!”

Someone cheers.

I stop several feet away.

There are too many people.

Too much noise.

I consider waiting.

Then a tall boy steps backward directly into me.

“Sorry.”

I step aside.

“Sorry.”

He looks at me.

I immediately realize I’ve apologized for something he did.

Again.

I need to stop doing that.

I move closer to the board.

Names are arranged alphabetically.

I find mine.

MOREL, ELIAS - ROOM 317

My eyes move across the line.

The second name is printed directly beside mine.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

My brain refuses to process it.

VALMONT, LUCIEN.

I stare.

No.

There must be another Lucien Valmont.

There has to be.

Saint-Véran has hundreds of students.

It’s possible.

Probably.

Maybe his family has a common name.

I turn around.

“Étienne.”

He appears beside me with a pastry in his hand.

I point at the list.

He reads it.

His eyes widen.

Then he slowly looks at me.

“Oh.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, I mean- ”

He takes another bite.

“You’re dead.”

I stare at him.

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He looks back at the list.

“You’re sharing a room with Lucien.”

“I can see that.”

“Lucien Valmont.”

“Yes.”

“The Lucien Valmont.”

“How many are there?”

“I don’t know.”

He thinks about it.

“Probably only one.”

I close my eyes.

Maybe this is a clerical error.

Maybe someone typed the wrong name.

Maybe..

“He’s difficult.”

I open my eyes.

Étienne is looking at me.

“How difficult?”

“He doesn’t like people.”

“I noticed.”

“He doesn’t like sharing.”

“Wonderful.”

“He doesn’t like noise.”

“Good. Neither do I.”

“He doesn’t like anyone touching his things.”

“I won’t.”

“He doesn’t like people asking questions.”

“I don’t ask many.”

“He doesn’t like people.”

I pause.

“That might be a problem.”

Étienne laughs.

“You’ll survive.”

I look at the list again.

Room 317.

Lucien Valmont.

My stomach feels strange.

I tell myself it’s anxiety.

Obviously.

The dormitories are in the oldest wing of Saint-Véran.

A long stone building sits on the northern edge of campus, connected to the main academy by a covered walkway.

There are ivy-covered walls, narrow windows, and old wooden doors.

The room numbers are written on small brass plaques.

I climb three flights of stairs.

My suitcase bumps against every other step.

By the time I reach the third floor, I’m breathing hard.

I stop outside Room 317.

For some reason, I hesitate.

This is ridiculous.

It’s just a room.

It’s not even the first time I’ve shared one.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock again.

Still nothing.

I try the handle.

Unlocked.

I push the door open.

The first thing I notice is the window.

It’s enormous.

It stretches almost from the floor to the ceiling and overlooks the lake.

Beyond it, the mountains rise beneath the evening sky.

The second thing I notice is that the room is much nicer than I expected.

Two beds.

Two desks.

Two wardrobes.

A small sitting area between them.

Dark wooden floors.

Stone walls.

An old brass lamp hanging from the ceiling.

There are heavy curtains beside the window.

A fireplace sits against one wall.

I stare.

This is a dormitory?

My old bedroom at home wouldn’t fit inside the bathroom.

I drag my suitcase inside.

One side of the room is already occupied.

There is a black sports bag beside the bed.

A pair of expensive-looking rugby boots sit underneath the desk.

A fencing jacket hangs from the back of a chair.

A stack of books is arranged neatly beside the bed.

No photographs.

No decorations.

Nothing personal.

It looks less like someone’s room and more like a hotel suite waiting for a guest.

I put my suitcase beside the empty bed.

Then I realize something.

This is going to be my room.

For an entire year.

With Lucien.

I sit on the mattress.

It’s ridiculously comfortable.

I bounce once.

Then immediately stop.

I shouldn’t be enjoying anything.

This is a disaster.

I take out my clothes.

Fold them.

Put them into the wardrobe.

Arrange my textbooks.

Place my notebooks on the desk.

I try to make my side look neat.

Simple.

Invisible.

Like me.

I am putting a pencil case into the top drawer when the door opens.

I turn.

Lucien walks in.

He is carrying one bag.

That’s it.

One black duffel bag over his shoulder.

He closes the door behind him.

Looks at me.

I look at him.

Neither of us speaks.

His eyes move around the room.

Then toward my suitcase.

Then back to me.

I suddenly feel like I’ve been caught trespassing.

“Hi.”

He says nothing.

I clear my throat.

“Apparently we’re roommates.”

“I noticed.”

Right.

Of course.

He drops his bag beside his bed.

I watch him.

One bag.

How does someone fit an entire life into one bag?

I look at my half-open suitcase.

There are socks everywhere.

He notices.

His eyebrow lifts.

I quickly close it.

“Sorry.”

His eyes narrow.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh.”

I look down.

“Sorry.”

His mouth twitches.

I realize what I’ve done.

He actually laughs.

It’s quiet.

Barely audible.

But I heard it.

“You really do that a lot.”

I shrug.

“Apparently.”

He takes off his blazer.

Underneath, his white shirt is slightly wrinkled.

He hangs the blazer carefully in the wardrobe.

I watch him without meaning to.

He notices.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He turns away.

For a few minutes, we unpack in silence.

It’s not uncomfortable.

Not exactly.

It’s strange.

I expected him to be louder.

More arrogant.

More difficult.

Instead, he’s simply... quiet.

Like me.

Except when I am quiet, people assume I’m nervous.

When Lucien is quiet, people seem to assume he’s dangerous.

I suppose there’s a difference.

I sit at my desk.

He sits at his.

I open a textbook.

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

Neither of us speaks.

Then Lucien says:

“You snore.”

I look up.

“What?”

He doesn’t look at me.

“You snore.”

I stare.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“You’ve never slept in the same room as me.”

He finally looks over.

“I know.”

“Then how do you know?”

A pause.

His expression becomes unreadable.

“I’ve heard you before.”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

He looks away.

“Forget it.”

I don’t.

But I don’t ask.

Something about the way he said it makes me think I shouldn’t.

Instead, I return to my textbook.

I’ve known him for less than a minute.

I already hate him.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

An hour later, I am still studying.

Lucien is lying on his bed with a book resting against his chest.

I glance at him.

He’s not reading.

His eyes are closed.

“Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“You look asleep.”

“I’m thinking.”

“With your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

I return to my notes.

A minute passes.

Then:

“What are you studying?”

“European economics.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of the curriculum.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I look over.

He’s watching me.

“Because I need good grades.”

“You already have good grades.”

I stare.

“How do you know?”

He doesn’t answer.

My fingers tighten around my pen.

There is something unsettling about him.

Not frightening.

Just...

familiar.

Like I’ve walked into a conversation that started years ago.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

He asks the question so casually that I nearly drop my pen.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to remember something.”

I go still.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

I look down at my notebook.

“Maybe you’re imagining it.”

“Maybe.”

The word is soft.

I look up.

He’s still watching me.

Then his gaze drops to the book on my desk.

He points.

“That’s the same edition you used to carry.”

My heart skips.

“What?”

He seems to realize what he’s said.

His face closes immediately.

“Nothing.”

“You said- ”

“I know what I said.”

“Then what does it mean?”

He gets up.

He walks toward the window.

For several seconds, he simply stands there.

The lake is dark now.

Only the lights along the shoreline are visible.

“You really don’t remember.”

It’s not a question.

I swallow.

“Remember what?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he says:

“Go to sleep, Scholar.”

Then he turns off the lamp.

The room falls into darkness.

I lie awake for a long time.

I listen to the wind outside.

To the distant sound of students laughing in the courtyard.

To the faint creak of Lucien’s bed whenever he moves.

I stare at the ceiling.

I think about his words.

You really don’t remember.

Remember what?

I close my eyes.

For a moment, I see water.

Bright sunlight.

A wooden dock.

A boy sitting beside me.

His face is blurry.

I hear laughter.

Then a voice.

Quiet.

Young.

Familiar.

Don’t forget me.

My eyes snap open.

The room is dark.

I turn my head.

Lucien is awake.

He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Neither of us speaks.

Outside, the lake reflects the moonlight.

For the first time since arriving at Saint-Véran, I wonder if getting assigned to Room 317 wasn’t an accident after all.

And beside me, in the darkness, Lucien Valmont remains awake as if he already knows the answer.