Ink and Embers

Rain had a habit of appearing uninvited in Eliana Cross's life.

It bled from gray skies as her bus rattled to a stop in front of Harper University, the mist-slicked campus emerging like a secret whispered in stone. She wiped the condensation from the window with her sleeve, peering through the fogged glass at the wrought-iron gates, the glistening walkways, and towers too old to belong to anything other than ghosts and legacy.

A second passed before she moved. The other passengers had already disembarked, swallowed up by umbrellas and urgency. She hoisted her leather duffel bag onto her shoulder, worn sneakers squeaking slightly on the wet steps as she stepped off the bus.

Harper smelled like damp leaves, chalk dust, and distant ambition.

And for Eliana, it smelled like unfinished business.

She adjusted the strap of her bag and took a breath that burned with cold. The air hit her lungs like a memory. The same autumn air from twelve years ago when she last stood at these gates-her father's hand gripping hers a little too tightly, his words lost to her now, but his unease not.

No one knew what really happened to Professor Cross. Just that he vanished one night without a trace.

Now here she was-twenty, alone, and arriving under his name. The name she told herself she'd keep hidden. At least for now.

Welcome to Harper University, read the banner stretched across the ivy-covered archway. She smirked. The university's enthusiasm was endearing. Misguided, perhaps, but endearing.

She made her way to the main building, where orientation check-ins were underway. The place smelled like old books and lemon-scented floor wax. Students bustled around her with overstuffed backpacks and glazed eyes, already neck-deep in syllabi and overpriced textbooks.

"Eliana Cross?" A chipper student volunteer waved a clipboard at her. "Dorm key and map. You're in Westbridge Hall, second floor. Your assigned advisor is Dr. Adrian Voss-he's brilliant but kind of intense. Most students either fear him or fall in love with him."

Eliana raised an eyebrow. "That's comforting."

The girl laughed. "You'll be fine. Just don't be late to his lectures. Ever."

Eliana nodded, took the packet, and walked off.

She didn't need a map. She already knew the way.

Her dorm room was small, clean, and smelled like someone else's detergent. Her new roommate, a petite blonde with aggressively friendly energy named Mara, had already taken the bed by the window and tacked up a dozen photos of her dog and what looked like her boyfriend.

"You don't mind the corner bed, right?" Mara chirped. "I just really love the light."

"It's fine," Eliana said, dropping her bag. She had no intention of spending much time here.

That night, she unpacked slowly, lining up her father's old journals in her desk drawer-spines worn, pages bloated with marginalia. One in particular had a red ribbon folded neatly in the middle. She'd never had the nerve to read beyond that bookmark.

Maybe she would now.

The next morning arrived too early and too loud. Mara's alarm blared like an air raid siren, and Eliana found herself stumbling into the hallway half-dressed, brushing her teeth with one hand while scrolling her schedule with the other. "The Literary Absurd: Voices of Isolation and Resistance," Dr. Adrian Voss, 10:00 AM, Calder Lecture Hall 3. The name itched at her brain. It wasn't unfamiliar.

She arrived two minutes early. The lecture hall was shaped like a half-moon, sleek and modern, a stark contrast to the Gothic exterior of the building. Students murmured, flipped through blank notebooks. No one paid her much attention.

Until the door at the front opened and silence fell like a curtain.

Dr. Adrian Voss stepped in without looking at anyone, a black coat clinging to his tall frame like armor. He moved with the economy of someone who'd done this a thousand times and found little joy in it. He dropped his satchel onto the desk, pulled out a single leather-bound folder, and surveyed the room.

His eyes passed over the rows of students like a scanner. Cool. Detached.

And then they landed on her.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

She almost didn't notice it. But when he looked away, something in her chest tightened.

He cleared his throat. "I won't insult your intelligence with a syllabus recital," he said. His voice was deep, with a gravelly edge that somehow managed to sound both tired and dangerous. "This class is for those unafraid of ambiguity, for those willing to sit in discomfort. Literature that doesn't offer answers. Only questions."

He began pacing slowly.

"We'll start with Camus. Not *The Stranger*-too easy. We'll start with *The Fall*. It asks: what does guilt look like when no one's watching? What does it mean to confess when no one's listening?"

Eliana's pen hovered over her notebook, unmoving.

She wasn't thinking about Camus. She was thinking about the man at the front of the room.

Something about him felt familiar. Not his face-she would've remembered him, even without the faint streaks of silver in his dark hair or the way his voice wrapped around the words like secrets.

It was the way he spoke.

Controlled. Guarded. Like someone who once trusted too easily and had the scars to prove it.

The class ended in silence, students shuffling out as if unsure they were allowed to speak again. Eliana lingered, pretending to organize her notes. She wanted-needed-to ask him something. Anything.

But when she looked up, he was already gone.

Later that evening, she wandered into the library-the old wing, where the dust seemed older than the books themselves. Her fingers trailed along the spines until she reached the philosophy section.

She pulled down a volume of Kierkegaard, only for a folded piece of paper to fall out and land at her feet.

Frowning, she picked it up.

The handwriting was scrawled and hurried, but unmistakable. Her heart stopped. A.V.-if something happens to me, the archive is the key. Burn nothing. Trust no one. –C. Cross Eliana stared at the note, her breath gone.

A.V.

Adrian Voss.

She folded the paper carefully, tucked it into her pocket, and left the library without looking back.

Rain had started again, just like it always did when the past refused to stay buried.

And this time, she wasn't just a student anymore.

She was a storm.