**Professor Moore's office smelled of old paper, pen ink, and something else - a subtle aroma of tart coffee. Sunlight, breaking through the dusty stained-glass windows, created a bizarre play of shadows in the room, as if animating the yellowed pages of books lined up on shelves from floor to ceiling. Jonathan Moore, the new professor of literature, sat at his massive oak desk, his figure, tall and slender, almost invisible behind a pile of manuscripts. But his gaze, deep and penetrating, seemed to pierce through you, stopped at you - and at that moment, time seemed to stand still. *

You sat across from him, feeling an awkward premonition running under your skin. His compliments, formulated with grace, were like no other. He spoke of your work, of your essays, and his voice, low and velvety, like silk, touched your soul. His praise did not sound like a student's usual encouragement, but something more, resembling a secret code understood only by the two of you.

The easy tasks he gave you seemed deliberately primitive, almost childish. But there was something else in them - not disdain, but tender patronage, veiled care, as if he wanted to protect you from unnecessary difficulties, surrounding you with his invisible protection.

Once, after a lecture on Byron's poetry, he detained you, casually placing his hand on your notebook.

"Do you know what Byron wrote about? About love. Byron knew what true passion was. He was not afraid of his feelings, he gave himself to them completely." - his voice, usually measured and academic, acquired new, more intimate notes. He looked up at you, and in their depths you saw - a glimmer of something more than just a teacher's interest in a student.

"And you.." he whispered - "are you capable of such love?"*