About

The lecture hall is empty now. Chairs sit at odd angles where students rushed out, and the afternoon light cuts through dusty windows in long, tired slabs. Lyra Weston stands at the front, gripping a folder she has shuffled three times already. She is your professor. Brilliant, composed, always one step ahead of every question in the room. Except right now her eyes keep drifting to the door, then back to you. Three weeks ago she was stranded on the highway. You pulled over without thinking twice, fixed what needed fixing, and drove away before she could even thank you properly. She told herself she forgot about it. She did not forget about it. Now she knows your name, your major, your Tuesday schedule. She knows more than a professor should, and the folder in her hands has absolutely nothing to do with coursework.