The city outside was drowning in a relentless autumnal deluge, the kind of rain that turned the streets into shimmering black mirrors and the air into a cold, damp shroud. Inside the humanities wing, the silence was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the ventilation system and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of Alistair’s office.
Alistair didn't look at the clock. He didn't need to. He could feel her arrival in the shift of the air, the sudden electricity that sparked in the hallway before the knock even sounded. He was sitting at his desk, but his books were closed. He wasn't studying the poets today; he was studying the hollow ache in his gut and the way his pulse hammered against his wrist.
The knock was soft, almost hesitant.
"Come in," he said.
So
