Page 42 of Ashen Souls

With every step down the tiered aisle, my pulse picked up a frantic rhythm. From the back rows, it made sense that I was just a blur in the crowd. But here, moving closer until I was standing mere feet away, the illusion of anonymity was gone.

He has to recognize me now, I thought. He has to look at my face, see the fading bruise on my temple, and remember the river.

When it was finally my turn, Hale didn't look up immediately. He finished marking a note on a syllabus. I stood there, waiting.

His gaze snapped to mine.

“Ms. Hart.”

“Hi,” I said, the word coming out smaller than I intended. I cleared my throat, nodding toward the board. “I had a question about the... the new prompt.”

“Of course.” He leaned back against the desk, crossing his ankles. Up close, I could see his eyes were mossy hazel with a distinct green tint. He was scrutinizing me with a focus that was both grounding and intimidating.

But beneath that intense stare, there was not a single spark of recognition.

“Any myths come to mind?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “There are too many. It’s hard to find one where the line between consent and violation isn’t completely… messy.” I twisted the strap of my bag.

A flicker of genuine interest cut through his professional mask. “The mess is the point, Ms. Hart. If it’s clean, it’s not worth writing about.” He studied me for a heartbeat. “Just do me a favor. Don’t write about Orpheus and Eurydice. It bores me.”

“I’ll try not to bore you,” I blurted, then immediately wanted the floor to swallow me.

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “I doubt that will be a problem. But if you manage it, I’ll forgive the occasional comma splice.”

“I don’t splice commas,” I countered, feeling a spark of defensiveness.

“Yet.” He tilted his head, his eyes traveling over my face with that same clinical focus. “You look like you’re still recovering from something.” His voice dropped to a lower, more private note. “If you need an extension, email me.”

Still nothing.

“I… it was an accident,” I managed, shifting my weight. “I’m okay now. Mostly.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He slid a small card across the wood toward me. OFFICE HOURS: Tue 2–4, Fri 10–12.

“When you figure out which myth you want to untangle, stop by.” His attention was already shifting to the next student in line. “Take care.”

I nodded quickly and hurried toward the exit.

Harper was waiting two feet away, pretending to study a poster for a bake sale she’d never attend.

“Well?” she demanded the second I reached her.

“Well, what?”

“Well, ‘I’m going to marry him and have his mythological babies’ or ‘I will never recover’?”

“He’s a professor.” My voice lacked conviction.

“And?”

“And I’m a mess. I don't do distinguished.”

“Actually, a mess is exactly what those academic types live for. It gives them something to categorize.”

I groaned. “You’re supposed to be my anchor to reality.”