Andrew lingered in the futuristic school, reluctant to leave the comforting hum of its advanced technology and the joy of teaching the eager children. It wasn’t his life, not truly, but it was so blissful, so inviting, that he found it hard to tear himself away. Yet, as he basked in its perfection, a fleeting doubt crossed his mind—was this happiness real, or merely borrowed? Under the glare of the bright, otherworldly lamps, the edges of the scene blurred, and before he fully understood what was happening, Andrew found himself standing on a road.

It was a road he recognised—one of those bustling thoroughfares where the traffic never seemed to pause, cars darting by with a rhythm that felt almost alive. The bus lane stretched out before him, empty and unwavering at first. Andrew waited patiently for a bus to appear, but as time passed, buses began to speed by, one after the other, their shapes distinct and solid, their engines humming smoothly. Yet none of them stopped. He waved, stepped closer to the edge, even shouted once, but the buses glided past as though he were invisible.

After a while, with a quiet acceptance, he began to walk along the lane.

To his surprise, he felt no weariness. His steps were light, his stride steady, as if the effort of moving forward had been lifted from his shoulders. The road stretched endlessly ahead, its surface warm beneath his feet, despite the season. The air was crisp but pleasant, and the sky was a soft, radiant blue. It was that peculiar time of year when winter still lingered, but spring’s promise was in the air—a moment poised on the brink of change.

Andrew moved with purpose, though he wasn’t entirely sure where he was going. There was a sense of urgency in his pace, a quiet insistence that he must reach somewhere. But no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t seem to arrive. The horizon remained just out of reach, tantalisingly close yet infinitely distant.

He glanced around as he walked. The road was familiar, but it felt different somehow—quieter, softer, as though it existed in a world slightly removed from the one he knew. The warmth of the day and the gentle brightness of the sky wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, easing the edges of his uncertainty.

Still, Andrew felt a subtle tug, an unspoken urgency that pressed him onward. Perhaps it wasn’t the time to reach his destination, or perhaps the destination itself wasn’t meant to be reached at all—only pursued.

The thought settled in his mind like a whisper, quiet but persistent. Whatever lay ahead, he would keep walking, trusting the road to guide him. The day stretched on, bright and timeless, as Andrew continued down the bus lane, moving forward into the unknown.

Suddenly, Andrew found himself back by the fireplace. The warmth of the room embraced him like a long-forgotten memory, and the soft, rhythmic purring of his cat, Limba, filled the quiet air. In front of him lay the dummy newspaper, the stark headline announcing Jenny Morrison’s death. His hands tingled with the sensation of recently touched snow, and the remnants of it clung to his boots, slowly melting into tiny puddles on the floor.

The morning light filtered through the window, illuminating a world transformed by the snowfall. Outside, the landscape was a silver-dusted fairytale, with branches shimmering like crystal and a soft, untouched duvet of white blanketing the earth. It was beautiful, yet Andrew felt numb.

He stared at the newspaper, then at the open laptop, and finally at Limba, who stretched languidly before curling up again. There was no denial in him now, but no acceptance either. The news of Jenny’s death no longer stirred anger or sorrow within him. His feelings had receded, leaving behind a void, a quiet resignation. This day, he thought, would be just another ordinary day in his life.

In his everyday routine, Andrew was a historian. His passion lay in the study of Ancient Greece—their traditions, their customs, the fragments they left behind in history’s wake. He loved ethnography and immersed himself in the stories of long-gone civilizations, imagining the lives they had lived and the worlds they had built.

When not buried in research, Andrew devoted his time to teaching. He gave lectures to first- and second-year students at the historical faculty, sharing his fascination with the past in the hope of igniting a similar spark in young minds.

Beyond history, Andrew had a deep love for languages, particularly ancient ones. The sounds, the scripts, the very essence of old tongues fascinated him. Deciphering them felt like unlocking a door to a forgotten world, and he often lost hours poring over texts, savouring the connection they offered to people long gone.

As for love affairs, by the age of thirty-three, Andrew had shared his life with a couple of women, fleeting companions through the winters of his past.

First, there had been Eleanor, a thoughtful and reserved art historian with a penchant for sketching ruins in her spare time. They had met at a seminar on classical architecture, their shared love for antiquity forming the cornerstone of their relationship. Together, they spent quiet evenings discussing mythology, walking along the Thames, or poring over faded maps of ancient cities. Yet, for all their intellectual connection, Eleanor had yearned for a more adventurous partner—someone who would chase sunlit horizons rather than linger in the shadowed past. They parted amicably, their bond fading into the gentle realm of nostalgia.

One drizzly evening in late autumn, the kind of night when the damp chill crept into one’s bones no matter how warmly one dressed. Andrew and Eleanor were seated by a crackling fire in a cosy pub near Westminster, their drinks in hand—a deep red wine for her and a dark ale for him.

“I do think you romanticise them too much, Andrew,” Eleanor said with a small smile, her pencil idly sketching arcs on a napkin. “The Ancient Greeks, I mean. They weren’t all philosophers lounging about in togas, solving the mysteries of the universe.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him. “And yet, their philosophies shaped so much of our world. The way they thought about virtue, about governance—”

“About war,” she interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t forget that part.”

“War too, of course,” he admitted, his tone conciliatory. “But I suppose it’s their ideals that fascinate me most. The notion of striving for excellence, of pursuing the highest form of oneself.”

Eleanor rested her chin on her hand, watching him with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “You do have a way of finding poetry in the mundane, Andrew. It’s one of the things I like about you. But sometimes, I wonder if you’d rather live among them than here, with us.”

The comment caught him off guard, and he hesitated, searching her face. “I live in the present, Eleanor. I just find... perspective in the past.”

“I know,” she said softly, her voice tinged with something unreadable. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “But don’t let the shadows of history keep you from seeing the light in front of you.”

Later came Margaret, a vivacious linguist whose laughter could fill an entire room. Margaret had a love for ancient scripts, and the two of them would sit for hours translating fragments of forgotten texts, their minds alight with shared discovery. Margaret brought energy to Andrew’s life, coaxing him out of his scholarly cocoon with impromptu trips to the theatre and spirited debates over dinner. But for all her warmth and charm, Margaret had always seemed to be searching for something beyond what their quiet life together could offer. In the end, she chose to follow a career opportunity abroad, leaving Andrew behind with bittersweet memories of her wit and liveliness.

The two of them were seated on the floor of Andrew’s study, surrounded by an assortment of ancient texts and loose papers. The lamp on the desk cast a warm golden glow, softening the edges of the clutter. Margaret had a notebook balanced precariously on her knee, her handwriting a neat, flowing script.

“This bit here,” she said, gesturing at a fragment of text they had been working on, “it’s not just a list of offerings. It’s a poem. Look at the structure—the repetition, the rhythm. It’s almost lyrical.”

Andrew leaned over, his brow furrowing in concentration. “I see what you mean. It does have a cadence. But a poem about sacrifices? Hardly uplifting, is it?”

Margaret laughed, her voice ringing through the room. “Oh, Andrew, not every poem has to be uplifting. Some are meant to be... reverent. Or solemn. Besides,” she added with a mischievous grin, “who are we to judge the aesthetic sensibilities of people two thousand years ago?”

He smiled at her enthusiasm, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “You always manage to find beauty in the strangest places, Margaret. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like having you around.”

She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling. “One of the reasons, is it? What are the others?”

Andrew hesitated, caught off guard by her directness. “Well,” he said slowly, “you bring life to these texts in a way I don’t. Where I see facts and history, you see people. Stories.”

Margaret’s smile softened, and for a moment, the air between them was still, charged with something unspoken. Then, with a laugh, she nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“Careful, Andrew. You’re starting to sound like one of my poems.”

With both women, Andrew had shared winters of comfort and companionship. They found solace in his steady presence, drawn to him as one might be drawn to the enduring strength of an Ancient Greek hero. But in both cases, their relationships, while warm and affectionate, never deepened into the permanence of family life. It was companionship, not destiny—a fleeting chapter in the story of his otherwise solitary existence.

Now, by the fire with Limba nestled beside him and the newspaper on his lap, Andrew’s thoughts drifted back to the women he had cared for, wondering if they ever thought of him as the seasons turned. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn’t. Either way, the day outside was bright, the snow untouched, and life pressed forward as always.

Andrew grabbed his briefcase and set off for the university. The road stretched before him, glistening under a delicate frost that seemed to crystallise the very essence of the morning. The sky was a pure, unblemished blue, the sort of winter clarity that made even the brisk chill feel invigorating. The frost, while biting at his cheeks and fingertips, carried with it a certain charm, a sharpness that quickened the senses and added a touch of vitality to the day.

As he approached the university, its stately form emerged through the crisp morning air, a vision of enduring grandeur. The building was a masterpiece of history and architecture, a fine example of Victorian elegance tempered by the wisdom of age. Each stone seemed to hold within it the echoes of generations of scholars, thinkers, and dreamers who had walked its halls. It stood proud and resolute, as timeless as the sciences studied within, exuding a dignity that recalled the poise of emperors from bygone eras.

Ascending the stone steps, Andrew allowed himself a moment to appreciate the building’s magnificence. The arched windows reflected the pale sunlight, while intricate carvings adorned the lintels, depicting figures of learning and discovery. There was a quiet majesty to the place, a sense of permanence that reminded him of the university’s unyielding commitment to enlightenment.

Pushing open the heavy oak doors, he stepped inside, greeted by the familiar warmth of the interior. The scent of old books mingled with the faint tang of chalk dust and the aroma of freshly brewed tea. The grand corridors, lined with portraits of eminent academics and pioneers, whispered of triumphs and debates, of theories conceived and challenged.

Students bustled about, their hushed conversations a harmonious undercurrent to the ticking of the great clock in the main hall. Professors, clad in tweed jackets and scarves, moved with purpose, clutching armfuls of papers and books.

Andrew entered the Ancient History department room, where Mr. Walter Spencer, the dean of the faculty, awaited him. The dean, a man of authoritative presence but with a faint twinkle in his eye, greeted him curtly.

"Mr. Hayward," he began, his tone measured, "today you’ll have a few new students joining your group. Please take a moment to review the list of attendees for your lecture. Some of them have a reputation for skipping classes. Let’s ensure that doesn’t become a habit under your watch."

Andrew nodded with a faint smile of understanding. "Of course, Dean Spencer. I’ll make sure to keep them engaged."

With that, Andrew took the list and made his way to the lecture room. As he walked down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps echoed faintly against the stone walls. He couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of purpose; his lectures were more than just lessons—they were a chance to inspire curiosity and passion for the past in the minds of his students.

Once inside the lecture hall, he stood for a moment, surveying the space. Rows of desks stretched before him, filling steadily as students filed in. He glanced down at the list in his hand, scanning the names to familiarise himself with his audience.

Suddenly, one name caught his attention. Charlie Ferrell.

When Andrew’s eyes landed on Charlie Ferrell in the back of the lecture room, he felt an inexplicable pull, a ripple of recognition that left him momentarily speechless. The young man raised his hand when his name was called, his slender frame relaxed, his dark hair slightly unkempt. For a brief moment, their gazes met.

Charlie’s glance was steady, curious but unassuming, the kind of look a new student might give a professor they were meeting for the first time. Yet, to Andrew, it was profoundly unsettling. Something about Charlie’s eyes—intense and familiar—triggered a wave of recognition so strong it almost left him breathless.

Andrew’s heart quickened. I know that look, he thought, his mind racing. I’ve seen it before. But the more he strained to place it, the more elusive the memory became. He was certain he had never met this young man before—Charlie was a stranger, and yet, undeniably, there was something about him that felt achingly familiar.

For a split second, Andrew hesitated, unsure if he should address the feeling or brush it aside. But then he remembered the lecture hall full of students watching him, and with a slight shake of his head, he forced himself to continue.

“Thank you, Mr. Ferrell,” Andrew said, his voice steady despite the storm of questions swirling in his mind. He moved on to the next name on the list, but his thoughts lingered on Charlie.

As the lecture progressed, Andrew found himself glancing toward the back of the room, drawn inexplicably to the young man. Who are you, really? he wondered. And why did it feel like, somehow, they already knew each other?

Suppressing his unease, Andrew returned to the task at hand. He reminded himself to focus on the lecture. The answers, if there were any to be found, would come in time.

As the lecture neared its conclusion, a hand rose at the back of the room. "Mr. Hayward, may I ask a question?" Charlie’s voice carried with a polite ease that drew the attention of the room. "Did the Ancient Greeks play football?"

Andrew offered a faint smile, glad to see such interest. "Ah, an excellent question, Charlie. While the Ancient Greeks didn’t play football as we know it today, they did have their own ball games. One of these was called episkyros, a team game where players endeavoured to move a ball over a designated line. It involved both kicking and handling the ball, something of a blend between football and rugby. The Romans, in turn, adapted a similar game known as harpastum, which was all about keeping possession of a smaller ball. Both games required strategy and physical skill, but they were far less structured than our modern sport."

He glanced around the room, ensuring the students were following. "Football as we recognise it really began to emerge in the 19th century, here in England, with the establishment of formal rules and organised competitions. But those ancient games, informal as they were, could certainly be seen as an ancestor to what we play now. A brilliant connection, Charlie."

Charlie nodded, his expression thoughtful. Then, after a moment, he added, "Thank you, Mr. Hayward. Actually, I brought it up because I wanted to let you know—I’ll be absent for the next lecture on Greek civilisation. I’ve got an important football match next week."

Andrew gave a soft chuckle. "Well, thank you for the heads-up, Charlie. Best of luck with your match. Perhaps you can imagine yourself playing a modern version of episkyros while you’re at it."

The students murmured in amusement, and Andrew returned to his notes. Still, as the lecture concluded and the room emptied, he found himself reflecting on Charlie. There was something about the lad—a casual charm, an easy curiosity—that lingered in his mind longer than he might have expected.