The snow had melted away, leaving behind roads that resembled rivers more than thoroughfares. Mud clung to boots and splattered hems, while grey waters rippled sluggishly in the gutters. The air was cold enough to nip at exposed skin but not enough to preserve winter’s fleeting kingdom. The once-pristine white had given way to an unforgiving landscape of slush and sludge.
That morning, Andrew adjusted his scarf against the chill and joined his colleagues for a conference on his beloved ancient civilisations. It was one of those rare occasions when he felt entirely at ease, surrounded by kindred spirits who shared his fascination for the past. After the lecture, they decided to visit a neighbouring museum of antiquities, a place where time itself seemed to linger in quiet reverence.
The group walked briskly through the damp streets, their conversation a medley of theories, interpretations, and animated debates. Andrew, though physically present, found his mind drifting. The scent had hit him moments ago—a scent so familiar and evocative that it stopped him in his tracks. A warm, sweet aroma with faint floral undertones, it stirred something deep within him. It was the scent of her—the one he had loved, the one he had lost.
His heart raced. For a fleeting moment, Andrew dared to hope, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. But all he saw were the usual blur of strangers, hurrying along with collars upturned against the cold. His colleagues were still chattering away, oblivious to his distraction, their voices a distant hum.
Then, as if to break his reverie, a sudden jolt.
“Watch it!” Andrew exclaimed, stumbling slightly.
“Mr. Hayward?” A voice, calm and a touch too cool, replied.
Andrew looked up to see a young man standing before him. It was Charlie Ferrel, one of his students—broad-shouldered, rosy-cheeked, and dressed in a casual jacket, with a sports bag slung over his shoulder.
“Charlie,” Andrew said, his tone measured, “good to see you. How’s the preparation for the football match coming along?”
Charlie hesitated, shifting his weight as if weighing his words. “It’s done now. The match was great, but we didn’t win,” he replied, his voice polite but detached, with a hint of irritation that Andrew couldn’t quite place.
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, better luck next time. Didn’t expect to bump into you here.”
“Nor I,” Charlie said, a strange edge to his voice.
The conversation felt strained, the usual pleasantries laced with something unspoken. Charlie launched into a description of the match, his enthusiasm palpable despite the loss. His words flowed with a rhythm and energy that struck Andrew as oddly familiar. As Charlie spoke, Andrew’s eyes wandered—an absent-minded glance at the sports bag slung across Charlie’s shoulder.
And then he saw it.
A necklace. A delicate chain with a small, intricate pendant, just peeking out of the half-zipped bag. Andrew’s breath caught. He recognised it instantly. He had given that necklace as a gift, years ago, to her. There was no mistaking it—the ornate design, the way the light caught its edges—it was unmistakably hers.
His mind raced, a jumble of hope, curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite name. Was it coincidence? Could the necklace have changed hands? Or did it mean what he desperately wanted it to mean?
The familiar scent lingered in the air, mingling with Charlie’s animated recounting of the game. Andrew tried to focus, to ask questions, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Charlie,” he began, his voice almost a whisper, “where did you get that necklace?”
The young man blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, this?” He hesitated, glancing down at the bag as if noticing the necklace for the first time. Before he could answer, Andrew’s colleagues called out to him, their voices sharp with urgency.
“Andrew! We’ll be late!”
Reluctantly, Andrew stepped back. The pull of obligation was stronger than his desire to probe further. He forced a smile, nodded at Charlie, and said, “We’ll talk later.”
But as he walked away, his thoughts lingered on the necklace, the scent, and the odd familiarity in Charlie’s tone. It wasn’t just the past that clung to him now—it was the tantalising prospect that the past might not be entirely lost.
The next morning, Mr. Hayward was strolling through the halls of the educational establishment, his tweed blazer swinging lightly as he greeted students with a warm nod. Spotting Charlie, he called out in his usual jocular tone, “Young Sphairikos!”—a playful reference to the Greek word for a ball-player. His passion for ancient civilizations spilled into everything he said, his enthusiasm contagious even to those who weren’t particularly keen on antiquity.
Charlie stopped in his tracks, his expression unreadable. “Come to my office, would you?” Mr. Hayward added with a smile, gesturing towards the corridor leading to his sanctum.
As soon as he turned away, Charlie’s classmates circled him, whispering with wide-eyed curiosity. “Are you going to take Mr. Hayward as your supervisor?” one asked.
Another chimed in, “You should! He’s brilliant. Yeah, he’s a stickler for thorough research, though. You’ll be trekking to every museum and ancient site he can think of. Forget just Googling things—he’ll have you digging through archives and dusty old books.”
“I heard he’s writing a book himself,” a third said. “About obscure Mediterranean tribes or something. You’ll learn a lot, honestly. It might even be fun!”
But instead of the usual polite nods or jokes Charlie was known for, his face darkened. “I’m not interested in Greece or Romans,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice low but seething with anger. The sudden edge in his tone froze his classmates mid-sentence.
“What’s with him?” one whispered as Charlie brushed past, his steps quick and deliberate. No one dared to stop him.
By the time Charlie reached Mr. Hayward’s office, his pulse was racing. He stood outside the door for a moment, steadying himself, before knocking lightly.
“Ah, come in, come in!” Mr. Hayward called from inside. He was seated at his desk, surrounded by stacks of books, papers, and artefacts, the room alive with the aroma of aged paper and freshly brewed tea.
Honestly speaking, Charlie couldn’t quite make sense of his body’s reaction. His palms were clammy, his pulse unusually fast, and he wasn’t sure why. Mr. Hayward was hardly the sort to inspire fear; on the contrary, he was the very picture of geniality. "Take a seat, Charlie," said Mr. Hayward, his voice as firm as it was reassuring.
Charlie did as he was told, perching himself on the edge of the chair like a bird unsure of its perch.
"I’d like to have a chat, Mr. Ferrel," began Hayward, steepling his fingers and leaning forward ever so slightly. "Have you decided yet which period of history you’d like to focus on?"
Andrew, ever the skilled conversationalist, knew better than to dive headlong into personal matters. He preferred to start with a subject that was comfortable—a solid foundation on which to build.
Charlie hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "To be honest, sir, I haven’t quite made up my mind. I like Ancient History, though," he admitted, almost shyly. "The way you teach it… it’s just fascinating. I particularly enjoyed the lecture on Ancient Greek dwellings. That’s always been a bit of a sticking point for me—archaeology isn’t really my thing—but the way you showed how their everyday lives were steeped in meaning… well, it was like seeing it in a whole new light."
Mr. Hayward’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, but he said nothing, allowing Charlie to continue.
"Professor," Charlie went on, his words tumbling out faster now, "I just want to say—thank you. Your lectures have completely changed the way I look at history. I used to think it was all just dull lists of dates and facts, but you’ve made it come alive. You’ve shown us how it’s not just about wars and kings—it’s about people, their beliefs, how they saw the world.
"Take the Ancient Greeks, for instance. I’d never have thought that something as ordinary as olive oil could be sacred, linked to Athena herself, symbolising peace and prosperity. Or amphorae—not just pots but storytellers in their own right, carrying myths and rituals as well as wine. And symposia! Drinking wine, but as a way of connecting intellectually and spiritually… It’s brilliant, isn’t it? A kind of poetry in everyday life."
Charlie paused, glancing down at his hands as though suddenly aware of his own enthusiasm. He looked back up, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You’ve made me realise that the Greeks didn’t just live—they wove meaning into everything they did. From their coins to their lamps, from the clothes they wore to the mirrors they used. And now, when I walk past something as ordinary as a water fountain, I can’t help wondering what stories it would tell if it were Greek."
Hayward leaned back in his chair, the faintest trace of a smile softening his otherwise scholarly expression.
"I never thought I’d say this, Professor," Charlie finished, his voice quieter now but no less earnest, "but history has gone from being the subject I dreaded most to the one I can’t stop thinking about. Thank you—for showing us it’s about more than just the past. It’s about people, their hearts, their minds. You’ve really opened my eyes."
The room fell into a comfortable silence, the sort that only follows words spoken with genuine feeling. Mr. Hayward nodded slowly, as though weighing Charlie’s words with the same care he might afford an ancient artefact.
"I’ve never been into history, Mr. Hayward," Charlie began, his voice steady, though his hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag. "You know, I’m a footballer—a sportsman through and through. Football has always been the first and most important thing in my life, the way Greek history is for you. I could go on for hours about penalties, great goals scored, and legendary matches."
Andrew leaned back slightly in his chair, hands clasped, adopting the quiet attentiveness that always drew students out.
"Oh, let me take you back," Charlie continued, his eyes lighting up with genuine passion. "The 1994 FIFA World Cup quarter-final—Italy versus Spain at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. July 9th. The atmosphere was electric; the fans created this incredible buzz that you could practically feel through the screen.
"In the second half, Roberto Baggio scored first for Italy—a stunning long-range shot that had the Italians roaring. But Spain wasn’t having it. Miguel Ángel Nadal curled in a free kick to equalise—pure magic. The tension was off the charts.
"When it came to penalties, it was madness. Italy’s Franco Baresi missed the first shot—it was like the world stopped. But then Daniele Massaro stepped up and nailed his, and Gianluca Pagliuca made these unbelievable saves. Italy won, 2-1. It was skill, drama, everything football is about—a match for the ages!"
Andrew didn’t interrupt, not even when Charlie’s words spilled over with unguarded enthusiasm. It wasn’t in his nature to cut someone off, especially when they were speaking so fervently. He simply nodded, allowing Charlie to take his time.
"But," Charlie said, his voice shifting to a quieter tone, "history, sir—it’s not my thing at all. I mean, I don’t even know which period I’d pick, if I even liked any of it."
Andrew’s brow furrowed slightly, though his tone remained gentle. "What brought you here, then, Charlie? To study history, of all things?"
Charlie hesitated, staring at the floor for a moment before answering. "Jenny... Jenny Morrison."
The name hit Andrew like a thunderclap, though he kept his expression composed. His chest tightened, and his breath caught, but he didn’t let it show. "Go on," he said softly.
"She’s... so into history," Charlie continued, his words spilling out now like a dam breaking. "Just like you, sir. She could talk for hours about the English civilisation—their conquests, their influence in literature, economics, politics. She loves diving into books, finding something new to piece together the past. She notices everything—the details, the feelings behind it all."
He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "And me? I barely notice anything unless it’s a ball flying toward the opponent’s net."
Andrew gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his mind a storm of thoughts he struggled to suppress. "I see," he murmured, his voice measured, careful.
"Jenny’s my complete opposite," Charlie admitted, leaning back in his chair as if the weight of his own words surprised him. "We met because, I think, we wanted something different—diversity, you know? But now... well, our differences feel so stark. We’re together, but it’s like we’re living in parallel worlds. She’s here, thriving in her element, and I’m..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"I came to this university for her," he confessed. "I thought if I studied what she loved, it’d bring us closer. That it’d help me cross the divide. But it’s not working, sir. History—it’s not my life. And here, within these walls, I feel like I’m living someone else’s dream, not mine."
Charlie stopped abruptly, realising how much he’d said, how much of himself he’d exposed. He looked up at Andrew, suddenly cautious, as if awaiting judgment.
Andrew’s face remained calm.
"I understand, Mr. Ferrell. I understand," Andrew said with a calmness so complete it seemed almost unnatural. Yet, within him, emotions swirled like the fragments of a shattered kaleidoscope, each shard reflecting a different hue of disbelief, hope, and longing. The woman who had consumed his thoughts in recent days—the woman whose death he had tried, unsuccessfully, to accept—was not gone. She was alive.
The feelings he had relegated to the dustbin of memory were not remnants of a lost past but threads of a living, breathing reality. The newspapers had been wrong. The town, with its mournful whispers and knowing glances, had been wrong. He had doubted his instincts, doubted himself, but now it seemed the universe was tilting back into alignment. Yet even in his elation, doubt lingered, circling like a shadow. Could he trust Charlie? Could he trust this moment?
He saw the headlines, stark and cruel, declaring Jenny Morrison’s tragic end. He saw the grainy photographs that accompanied them, but he also saw the pictures etched in his own mind—moments of the past, visions of a future he had dared not hope for. A future with her, a future that now shimmered just out of reach.
"Charlie," Andrew began, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "I have a question." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the young man. "The necklace I saw in your sports bag that day… Is it Jenny Morrison’s?"
"Yes," Charlie replied, his tone clipped, almost brusque.
Andrew’s breath caught. He felt as if the world had stopped turning, poised on the edge of revelation. "How…?" he began, his voice faltering.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, running a hand through his hair. "She keeps it as something precious—a memory of someone she loves and respects. It’s completely by chance that it ended up in my bag. I must’ve grabbed it accidentally when I was packing my clothes."
The words struck Andrew like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Relief, sweet and overwhelming, coursed through him. Jenny was alive. The past was no longer a closed book but an unfinished chapter. And Charlie’s casual use of the present tense—*loves and respects*—lit a spark in Andrew’s heart.
He wanted to see her, to confirm with his own eyes what his heart already knew. But then a question, cold and sobering, surfaced in his mind: Who am I now?
Once, he had been Jenny’s equal, her confidant. Now, he was a professor, a man who had spent years cloistered in the dusty corridors of academia, while life moved on without him. And here, before him, was one of his students—a young man with a connection to Jenny that Andrew could not fully understand.
Snapping back to the present, Andrew straightened in his chair. His duty as an educator, as a professional, came flooding back. He could not allow his personal emotions to overshadow his responsibilities.
"Charlie," he said, his tone warmer now, though tinged with a quiet determination, "if you ever need help with your history studies, you need only ask. I’ll gladly help you."
Charlie left the professor's office with a sense of relief washing over him, like a cool breeze after a stifling day. Whatever tension had hung between them had dissipated, leaving behind a quiet understanding. Though he couldn’t quite put it into words, Charlie felt lighter, as though some unseen weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
With a renewed sense of focus, he adjusted the strap of his sports bag and made his way to the lecture hall. The murmur of students settling into their seats greeted him as he entered, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he felt ready to engage—not just with the class, but with the path he was beginning to carve out for himself.
