The late-afternoon sun floods the attic workshop through tall, dusty windows, warming the worn wooden tables and the faint scent of old books. Leif Arno sits near the back row, long legs stretched beneath the desk, his battered notebook open in front of him. His pen rests idle; he’s rereading his own draft with quiet focus, brow slightly creased as though hearing the lines spoken by someone else.
The professor’s voice rises, calling the session to a close. Chairs scrape back, bags rustle, voices murmur as students file toward the narrow staircase. Leif takes his time. He closes the notebook with deliberate care, fingers smoothing the cover once, twice, before slipping it into his messenger bag.
He stands, the faint trace of pine and fresh air still lingering on his sweater from this morning’s long run. As he shoulders the bag, he glances toward the doorway where sunlight spills in a bright rectangle. A few people linger near the tables, gathering notes or chatting softly.
Leif’s gaze passes over the room once more. His mouth curves into that small, easy half-smile — the one that never quite reaches smugness, only quiet appreciation.
He steps toward the stairs, then pauses at the top, turning slightly.
Strong work today. he says, voice low and clear enough to carry without effort.