She smiles a little to herself, embarrassed by her own pettiness.
I should be full of gratitude.
Her mind replays the situation with a new light, a repentant clarity. She had been exasperated—over a silly new chatroom, over her classmates' eagerness to meet Julian.
No, she corrects herself firmly, Professor Lenter.
She needs to be careful with her heart, with her thoughts.
As she always does, Grace tries hard to repent the moment she catches herself growing arrogant, too quick to judge, or ungrateful. She knows how easy it is to slip, to let the smallness of life obscure the magnitude of God's grace.
The bus rattles gently as it approaches her neighborhood, the sun casting long golden beams across the road. Grace spends the rest of the ride with her heart quietly bowed, listing silently, one by one, all the things she's thankful for today.
That night, Julian sits quietly in his studio apartment, the soft glow of a desk lamp casting warm light across the ivory-toned walls. His desk, crafted from antique wood and styled with elegant curves, matches the fresh, understated elegance of the space. A gentle stream of classical music hums in the background, weaving a sense of peace into the air.
He scrolls through the emails in the account reserved for his confidential missions, his fingers moving methodically across the trackpad. One by one, he verifies that each operation is on schedule. Every reply that needed to be sent is now done, and everything, at least for now, is under control.
Finished, Julian leans back in his comfortable chair and tilts his head toward the ceiling, allowing his body to sink into the calm of the night.
That's when something flickers in his memory. He unlocks his phone and opens the banking app, his thumb hovering for a second before tapping in. A moment later, it loads.
There it is.
Eight hundred dollars. Deposited.
From: Grace Silver.
It sits clearly in his chequing account, unmissable.
His eyes linger on the name. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—crooked, amused, and touched with something he can't quite name.
He doesn't even care if that's the actual amount she used or not. Maybe it's more. Maybe it's less. It doesn't matter. That's the least of his concerns right now. What matters is—she sent it.
Grace Silver… So, you sent it after all.
Her face lights up inside his heart uninvited, her smile vivid and real in his memory. Not that she has ever smiled at him that warmly—no, the smiles he recalls are meant for someone else, a classmate guy who sits right next to her. But still, the image burns itself into him, refusing to leave.
He sees her expressions too—the flashes of coldness, the moments of nonchalance he caught on the campus streets, back in Mellany, and even now, they float around him like echoes he can't quite shake off.
She is not Hannah... Wake up, he tells himself firmly, shutting his eyes tight for a moment as if to block the images out.
But it isn't that simple.
The resemblance between Grace and Hannah is almost haunting. It's not just a passing similarity—it's the way they move, the shape of their expressions, the fleeting glances they give the world when they think no one is watching.
Julian doesn't want to link a stranger to the past he's tried so hard to seal away. Yet, seeing Grace—even from a distance—stirs something inside him. An ache, a longing, a nameless sensation he wishes he could ignore but can't.
Tomorrow morning... I'll see her again.
He lets the thought settle into him as he glances at the clock. Thursday. Another lecture. Another moment where their paths will cross—not as anything more, but simply as professor and student.
Julian leans his head back further, staring into the ceiling's quiet expanse.
He wonders if all of this—the meetings on Mellany Street, the encounter at L. Bingo, the way she now walks the halls of his university—is merely coincidence.
But deep down, beneath all the layers of logic and denial, he knows.
This is not a coincidence.
It can't be.
The next morning, Julian steps into the empty lecture hall, the echo of his footsteps the only sound filling the wide, hollow space.
He arrives early—almost twenty minutes before class is supposed to begin.
Setting his laptop, a leather-bound notebook, and his favorite pen onto the podium desk, he lets out a small breath, the kind that feels heavier than it should.
His eyes wander instinctively to the very back of the hall, where the seats rise in steep, theater-like rows. His gaze lingers there—at the spot where Grace had sat just two days ago on the first day of the course.
Hopefully she sits in the back again, he thinks, feeling a strange, restless energy stir in his chest.
Julian shifts uncomfortably behind the podium, remembering how he had caught himself sneaking glances at her that first day—how he'd tried to look away, to act normal, but somehow failed miserably. Normally, eye contact is effortless for him, a tool he wields with casual, natural confidence.
But with Grace Silver... it all seems to vanish.
It's as if the skills he's honed over a century of life—charisma, poise, control—disintegrate the moment she's near.
He shakes his head slightly, a grim smile touching his lips.
I'm 135 years old, and she's what... twenty-five? he muses. Why am I acting so weird in front of her? Just be chill. She's a hundred years younger than me.
Julian straightens his posture, making a conscious effort to compose himself, his eyes once again scanning the back rows in a quiet rehearsal—practicing not to flinch if she sits there again.
And that's when the door swings open with a soft thud.
Grace walks in, the morning sunlight from the hallway catching in her hair, casting a faint halo around her silhouette.
A small, elegant handbag dangles from her wrist, and she clutches her laptop against her chest like a shield.
Grace is dressed simply, wearing a zipped-up hoodie, a grey short-sleeved t-shirt, and black wide cargo pants.
For a brief, electric moment, their eyes meet—three silent seconds that stretch longer than they should.
No words.
Just the shared, almost uncomfortable acknowledgment that something is there, hovering between them.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Grace quietly makes her way toward the seats.
Both of them freeze for a moment, clearly caught off-guard by the unexpected reality of being the only two people in the vast, empty lecture hall.
I should have come in later…
Grace groans inwardly, a flash of regret tightening her chest. She hates this kind of awkwardness—especially when she can't even pinpoint exactly why it feels so uncomfortable.
Quickly gathering herself, she offers a small, polite smile.
"Hello, Professor..." she begins, her voice wavering for just a half second. "Lenter...!"
Julian straightens slightly, his hands instinctively smoothing the edge of the podium.
"Hello," he replies, his voice a shade too formal, the awkwardness unmistakable between them.
Without lingering, Grace immediately moves, her steps quick and light, striding straight to the very back of the lecture hall.
Julian watches her go, the sight of her walking away stirring a mix of emotions in him he wishes he could untangle.
So just like the other time... she's sitting in the back, he thinks, a small wave of relief washing over him.
If she had sat in the front rows—too close, too present—he isn't sure he would have been able to deliver his lecture without stumbling.
But as she puts distance between them, another feeling—an unexplainable flicker of disappointment—creeps in quietly.
It feels, irrationally, as if she's intentionally moving away from him... as if she doesn't want to be near him at all.
Grace slides into the same seat she occupied before and hurriedly sets her things down.
Determined not to look toward the podium—or at Julian, who she knows is still somewhere in her peripheral vision—she snaps open her laptop with slightly more force than necessary.
The screen glows to life, and she moves with frantic purpose, clicking around the documents page, pretending to be extremely, impossibly busy.
Anything to drown out this awkward, suffocating silence.
She clicks on her journal file and immediately starts typing, the sharp sound of her keyboard tapping filling the lecture hall.
[This is so weird. I'm alone in the lecture hall with Professor Lenter and this is honestly so awkward.]
Grace keeps her head down, fingers flying over the keys faster than her brain can even process, as if she can somehow type her way out of the tension thick in the air.
Meanwhile, Julian pretends to organize his lecture notes, though he finds himself glancing up—just briefly—at the solitary figure in the back row, the steady sound of her typing somehow louder than the music that had filled his apartment the night before.
Grace continues typing, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, a slight curl appearing at the corner of her lips.
He's probably going to think I'm super busy studying right now, she muses, when I'm actually just writing about how awkward this moment is…
The thought almost makes her chuckle, but she keeps her face composed, hiding behind the small shield her laptop provides.
Even though the screen isn't large enough to conceal her completely as her whole face is still clearly visible to Julian. But still, just having it between them gives her a strange sense of safety, like an invisible wall protecting her own little space in the vast, empty room.
Her typing fills the room, the steady clack of the keys somehow making the silence even more obvious.
Julian casts another nonchalant glance toward the back of the classroom. But this time, his eyes linger. Longer than before.
Completely absorbed, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with focused intensity. She doesn't look up, doesn't glance his way.
It's as if she's forgotten. Forgotten that she transferred the money. Forgotten Mellany. Forgotten everything.
Julian wants to ask her what she was about to say back at his office a day before. Wants to rewind that moment and hear what she had to say.
But he doesn't. He feels as though she couldn't care less.
Julian shifts his gaze back to the screen, though the words still don't register.
I guess now she doesn't have any business with me. Not anymore now that she's paid back the money. That chapter's closed. Good. It's clear. Simple. Professional.
He taps the keyboard, a bit harder than necessary, forcing his focus back into the course materials. But beneath the surface, something stirs. A quiet bitterness rises, uninvited. Unexplainable.