I drifted that way without thinking too hard about it. My palm settled against the edge of the door, the wood smooth and warm under my hand, and I pushed it open.
The hinges creaked softly.
Henry’s home office opened up in front of me.
I knew it the second I stepped inside.
Not just because of the desk or the laptop or the quiet weight of the room—but because it felt like him in a way the one at the university never did.
His office on campus was controlled. Everything in its place, nothing left behind that didn’t need to be there. You could sit across from him in that space and think you understood him.
Here, there were pieces of him everywhere.
The desk was still the same dark wood, solid and anchored, but it wasn’t cleared off to a perfect surface. Papers were spread across it, worked through, marked up, left mid-thought. His laptop sat open, screen dimmed but alive, like he’d stepped away and expected to come back.
Books weren’t lined up for show—they were open, stacked, left where he’d last touched them. Notes in the margins. Pagesflagged. A pen resting sideways across a sheet like he’d set it down and moved on to something else without finishing.
I stepped further in without thinking, gaze moving slowly, taking it in piece by piece.
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.
Whatdidn’tthis man do?
Teach. Cook. Whatever the hellthiswas?—
Writing another book, maybe? Something that required this level of… immersion.
More papers were spread out across the rug like he’d run out of space and just kept going.
A small stack of yearbooks sat off to the side, edges worn soft with use, tabs sticking from them as though Henry had marked certain students.
I crouched without thinking, thumbing through the clippings. Some were highlighted, others marked up in the margins the same way his notes were.
I spotted an article sitting near my knee, the headline bold enough to pull me in.
THE ASHFORD ACADEMY FIRE
Four Faculty Members Dead in Sealed Archive Wing; Student Aide Survives
I leaned slightly, not even realizing I was doing it, eyes tracking over the first few lines. Words likepronounced deadstood out, detached and clinical in a way that didn’t match the weight they carried.
Another page sat half beneath it.
Not an article.
Eulogies.
Names listed one after another of men who’d died in that fire, followed by paragraphs that tried to make them sound whole.
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, settling to my knees as my eyes moved slower, not really reading anymore—just… taking it in.
Why?
The question sat there, persistent, nagging at something in me that I couldn't quite pinpoint.
I saw it then—a single sheet of paper.
Not part of the stacks. Not tucked into anything. Just… sitting there.