Julian pushes open the door to the administration office, and a gentle wave of warmth rolls out to meet him, chasing away the chill from the hallway.
Behind the reception desk, a woman with kind eyes and neatly pinned hair looks up from her paperwork. The soft yellow light above casts a halo over her, and her smile blooms as she recognizes him.
"Professor Lenter, how are you doing?" Her voice is warm, almost motherly.
Julian returns the smile—small, polite, but tinged with something unspoken—and crosses the carpeted space until he's standing in front of her desk.
"Hi, good afternoon," he says, giving a small nod. "I dropped by to ask you something."
She leans forward slightly, folding her hands.
"Yes, of course. How can I help you?"
He draws in a quiet breath, his voice faltering just enough to betray the weight behind the words.
"About Grace Silver… is she back on campus? I mean—registered back?"
The woman blinks, surprise flickering across her face. Her eyes widen a fraction before she answers, her tone firm but not unkind.
"Well, no. Certainly not. But—" she tilts her head—"she came by a while ago."
Julian's brows knit together.
"She came by?" His voice sharpens ever so slightly, as if the air in the room shifts.
"Yes, Professor Lenter." There's a trace of fondness in her tone, as though recalling the visit. "She came by to ask about enrollment."
Inside the thin frames of his black-rimmed glasses, Julian's eyes quiver. A thought ripples through him like an unsteady current.
She wants to enroll…?
The woman's next words feel almost like an answer to his unspoken question.
"She also asked about the tuition deadline," she continues, then hesitates. Her lips press into a brief, apologetic smile. "When I told her she doesn't need to pay for the next tuition, she asked me why. And… I told her the donor had already paid for her."
Julian lets out the faintest gasp—so soft it barely disturbs the air between them.
The woman blinks, a shadow of regret in her eyes.
"And… because she wanted to know who the donor was—and she mentioned she's in a medical state, struggling with memory loss—I… ended up telling her it was you, Professor Lenter." Her voice dips, careful, almost guilty. "I'm sorry."
"Oh…" Julian breathes the word, a soft exhale that feels heavier than it sounds. "I see."
"I hope I didn't put you in a difficult position," she says quickly. "I thought you might have wanted to keep it a secret."
He manages a faint smile, small and measured, like a delicate porcelain piece that might shatter if handled too roughly. "It's all right. I mean… so she knows now. I see."
His composure returns, a polite armor slipping back into place. "All right. Thanks for letting me know. Have a great day."
"You too, Professor Lenter," she replies with the same gentle warmth.
Julian turns and steps out into the crisp winter air. The door closes behind him with a muted click. Snow drifts down from the pale sky, landing silently on his dark hair. He tilts his head back, letting the flakes touch his face—cool, weightless.
Ahead, the broad expanse of campus stretches out, the white snowfall softening every line, every edge. A few students move through the open walkways, their laughter and voices faint in the distance.
He stands still for a moment, his breath clouding in front of him.
Grace… How far are you going?
His heartbeat pounds in his chest—steady, relentless—like a drum echoing across an empty hall.
A few hours later, the quiet hum of Julian's office is broken only by the faint tick of the wall clock and the occasional whisper of a page turning. He sits at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee beside him, eyes moving over the dense lines of a thick book.
The phone on his desk buzzes against the wood.
Julian glances down, tilting his head at the unexpected name lighting up the screen.
Harry?
He picks up the phone, thumb swiping to open the message.
He stares at the words for a moment, then types a quick reply.
The response comes almost immediately.
Awesome! Then I'll go right now.
Julian exhales slowly, lowering the phone onto the desk. His fingers linger there for a moment before he leans back in his chair.
Perhaps Harry already knows Grace is awake… and he's coming to talk about that?
The thought turns over in his mind, rippling outward until it touches everything else—most of all, the memory of seeing her just hours ago.
Her face drifts into his mind. The way she smiled.
Polite. Warm. And yet… detached.
The smile of someone greeting a stranger in passing.
"Excuse me?" Her voice, light and uncertain, echoes in his head like it's still in the room.
Julian's eyes drop to the coffee mug on his desk. The dark liquid swirls as he tilts it slightly, tiny ripples catching the muted light from the window. He stares into it, as if he could find some answer there—something that would steady the unquiet rhythm in his chest.
Julian's gaze lingers on the coffee, his thoughts spiraling deeper, when a sudden knock breaks the silence.
He blinks, straightens slowly, eyes shifting toward the door. For a moment, he doesn't move—just listens to the faint hum of the heater and the soft hiss of snow against the window.
Harry. Probably.
Pushing back his chair, Julian rises, each step unhurried, his mind still trailing behind him. He crosses the small office, the floorboards faintly creaking beneath his shoes, and reaches for the handle.
The door swings open.
There stands Harry, framed by the cold winter light spilling in from the hallway. A long brown jacket wraps around him, dusted with fresh snowflakes clinging to the fabric and melting into dark specks. His hair, too, is scattered with white, like frost caught mid-melt.
"Hi, Professor Lenter," Harry says, his broad smile cutting through the chill as if the cold hasn't touched him at all.
"Harry," Julian greets, his voice warm but quiet, a faint smile touching his lips. "Come in."
He pulls the door open wider, and Harry steps inside, brushing a few lingering snowflakes from his hair. The cold air trails in after him before the door closes with a soft click.
Harry's gaze sweeps over the room as he walks in, his smile widening. Without hesitation, he sinks into the sofa, the cushions sighing under his weight.
"Your office is always so well designed and decorated," he says, his tone admiring.
Julian answers with a small smile, but behind it, his thoughts stir.
With a smile like that… does Harry even know Grace is awake?
"Do you want some tea or coffee?" Julian asks as he crosses to the sleek coffee machine in the corner.
"No, it's fine," Harry replies, shaking his head.
Julian hums softly, but his hands move anyway, pulling out a delicate ceramic cup.
"Well, then at least try the matcha tea I got as a gift from East Asia," he says, measuring the vivid green powder and whisking it into steaming water. The subtle scent of earth and spring fills the air, weaving warmth into the winter day.
He turns, cup in hand, his expression softening into a kind, slightly warmer smile.
"So—what brought you here, Harry?"
Harry's lips curve into a sheepish smile, the kind that carries both hesitation and a hint of something unsaid.
"Well," Harry begins, leaning forward slightly, "I guess you've probably heard this kind of question a hundred times from other people… but as such a renowned entrepreneur in the modern fashion industry…"
He pauses, a shy smile flickering across his face. It's a strange, almost delicate expression—one that doesn't usually belong to Harry, whose confidence often fills the room.
Julian catches it. The corners of his lips curl up faintly.
So he's here for advice.
Just as Julian suspects, Harry says, "Do you have any tips on how I can probably start with my fashion brand?"
A short laugh escapes him, as if the weight of the question embarrasses him.
"I know—it's such a cliché question to ask you, right?"
Julian's smile deepens, slow and measured, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening.
"Well… I think you know it already, very well, from your father."
Harry lets out a half-laugh, shaking his head almost playfully.
"Well, no, actually. My father is the head of the group, but… I don't agree with what his fashion company pursues. It's not the fashion I want to put out into the world."
Julian listens in silence, his expression still composed, lips faintly curved—neither encouraging nor dismissive, simply present.
Harry's tone shifts, becoming more earnest. "I mean, you're the symbolic figure in the unique fashion brand entrepreneur world. In terms of establishing something truly distinctive… something firm, unshakable—your brand stands apart from all the others."