That evening, the apartment is wrapped in a gentle stillness, the kind that settles after the bustle of a long day. In the living room, Grace sits at the round table, a single sheet of stationery paper placed neatly in front of her. A black pen rests between her fingers. The soft light from the standing lamp casts a warm circle around her, and the distant hum of traffic floats in through the window.
She stares at the blank page for a moment, then twirls the pen slowly between her fingers, thoughtful.
It's been years since she's written a handwritten letter—probably not since high school graduation. Everything these days is typed, clicked, and sent in a matter of seconds. But this—this feels different. This feels worth the ink.
Without too much hesitation, she leans forward, presses the pen to the paper, and begins to write.
Hi, this is Grace Silver. I suppose you know me as the girl you helped with tuition. I'm writing this letter simply because I want to say thank you. I couldn't let your kindness go without a proper expression of gratitude. That's just not my style.>
Grace pauses, reading over the words, and continues writing.
The next morning, the atmosphere in the lecture hall hums with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Julian stands to the side of the podium, hands loosely clasped, his black-rimmed glasses catching the gentle morning light filtering through the tall windows. It's presentation day for his History of Fashion course, and the first group has just taken the stage to present their video essay, followed by a Q&A with the class.
From her seat in the back row, Grace watches the screen intently. The video plays with a seamless blend of historical visuals and thoughtful narration, and she can't help but be impressed.
They did such a good job… she thinks, a quiet admiration glowing in her eyes.
Noticing her expression, Harry leans slightly toward her and whispers, "You'll make a great presentation up there, you know."
Grace glances at him, lips curling into a small smile.
"Hope the professor thinks so," she whispers back with a soft chuckle.
Though she had initially felt awkward about seeing Julian again—especially after the strange, tangled encounter at the hotel—her mind today is surprisingly calm. Her focus is elsewhere. The presentation has her attention, yes, but there's a weight in her thoughts: the anonymous man who keeps texting and calling her. That's what truly occupies her now. That unanswered question lingers in the back of her mind, clouding the edges of her concentration.
From where he stands, Julian watches the room with a casual gaze. But when his eyes settle on Grace, he notices something. She's scanning the rows of classmates—not watching the video as intently as the others. Her eyes flicker from face to face, brows slightly drawn.
Something's off.
He can't quite put his finger on it, but there's a tension in her posture that wasn't there before. Through his glasses, he observes quietly, curious, his analytical mind already tracing threads of possibility.
The first group finishes. As their Q&A concludes, Julian initiates a round of applause. The sound of clapping fills the hall, polite and enthusiastic. The presenters smile, bow slightly, and return to their seats.
Group after group continues, each bringing their own unique interpretation and style to the assignment. Finally, the second-to-last group is called.
"Harry and Grace?" Julian says, his voice smooth but neutral as his eyes flick briefly to the back of the room.
Grace and Harry rise from their seats and walk toward the front. Grace's heart thumps once, hard, but she steadies her breath. She's not here to overthink. Just present, do her part, and get back to her search for answers.
The lights dim slightly as their video essay begins to play.
The room falls quiet. Classmates lean in. On the screen, images flow—rich fabrics from ancient dynasties, sketches from modern designers, and carefully placed commentary. Grace and Harry stand off to the side of the podium, finally able to relax as their work speaks for itself.
Julian watches from where he stands, arms crossed lightly, but his thoughts are no longer solely on the presentation. He's watching Grace. Noticing the subtle tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes flick toward the door, the shadows in her gaze.
Something's definitely bothering her.
And he finds himself wondering, once again, what it is about this girl that keeps pulling his attention—again and again.
The video fades to black, and a moment of silence hovers in the air before the lights ease back on.
Julian, still standing by the podium with a relaxed posture, glances at the class.
"So, any of you want to ask Group 9 a question?" he says, his tone inviting.
Hands rise.
The questions come in waves—some sharp, some meandering—and Grace and Harry respond in turn, their rhythm seamless. Grace answers with clarity, her tone casual yet confident, even throwing in a few light-hearted remarks that spark quiet laughter around the room.
Julian watches her from the corner of his eye. There's something about her way of speaking—how she can be so composed, even laid-back, and then suddenly animated when a subject excites her.
She's… dynamic, he thinks, almost distracted by the thought. Like water—still one moment, spirited the next.
As the questions taper off, Julian lifts his gaze to the room.
"Any other questions for Group 9?" he asks.
Silence.
"All right," he says with a slight nod. "Next is Group 10."
Grace and Harry step down from the front, returning to their seats. Their part is done, but Grace's mind is not. As she sinks into her chair in the back row, she barely registers the next video playing. Her eyes sweep the room with quiet intensity. Everyone around her seems so casual, too casual.
And that makes it worse.
Any of them… it could be any of them, she thinks. Or maybe none.
The mystery churns in her chest.
When the final presentation ends, Julian steps forward once more, folding his hands together as he looks over his students.
"Good job, everyone," he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into a soft smile. "I can see the work you've all put into this project. The next assignment will involve creating mix-and-match fashion coordinations inspired by your designated historical period. You've got plenty of time until the deadline, so I hope you enjoy the process." He gives a slight nod. "With that said, class is dismissed."
Chairs shuffle. Backpacks zip. Conversations bubble to life.
But Grace doesn't move.
She sits still at her desk, elbows resting on her knees, her eyes quietly scanning the room as the students begin to filter out. Her gaze darts from face to face—lingering, doubting, wondering. Everyone's laughing, talking, stretching, walking away like it's just another Tuesday. Like they don't know anything. Like none of them could possibly be the one who's been texting her, calling her, helping her from the shadows.
But Grace doesn't believe that.
Not for a second.
Everyone seems too normal. And maybe that's what makes it so strange. Because underneath that normal… anyone could be the one.
And it's driving her mad not knowing.
Harry, his backpack already slung over one shoulder and neatly zipped, stands up and turns toward Grace.
"Grace, where are you looking?" he asks, curiosity threading his voice.
Grace blinks, startled out of her reverie. She quickly shifts her gaze from the students streaming out to meet Harry's eyes.
"Umm…" she hesitates, then forces a small smile. "No, no, you should go ahead. It's okay for you to leave first today."
Harry shrugs, a bit puzzled but not pressing further.
"Okay, then. Let's just walk to the bus stop together."
Grace shakes her head gently. "No, I've got some things I need to finish first." She gestures toward her laptop lying on the desk. "Some notes to jot down. You go on ahead."
Harry studies her for a beat, sensing something different—something unspoken in the way she holds herself today. But he doesn't want to push, so he simply nods.
"All right. Take care. I'll see you tomorrow."
With a friendly wave, he strolls out of the lecture hall.
The room empties quickly; footsteps echo faintly against the floor. Julian, having packed his laptop into his bag after fielding the last round of questions, glances toward Grace. She remains seated in the back, lost deep in thought, eyes distant, fixed somewhere beyond the empty rows of chairs.
"Grace," Julian calls softly from the podium.
She looks up, meeting his gaze.
"Yes?"
"Why aren't you leaving yet?"
Grace shrugs uneasily, biting her lip as if weighing how much to say.
"I just have some things to sort out," she replies quietly. "I'll head out soon."
Julian nods slowly, the subtle tension in her voice not escaping him. Something lingers in the air between them—unspoken, but palpable.
Grace slips her laptop into her bag and rises. They head toward the building's entrance together—Julian matching her pace, calm and composed as always. The awkward hotel moment—the one where she was locked out, wrapped only in a towel—briefly flashes through her mind, making her cheeks warm. Julian, however, walks with steady ease, unfazed.
Breaking the silence, Grace clears her throat.