It was the 23rd of September.

  A light rain was falling, slicking the stones of the university grounds. I woke early and walked beneath the sheltered colonnades of the garden before returning to my room to prepare for the day. My first class was Philosophy.

  I entered the classroom, which breathed a silence that felt older than the students sitting within it. It was a cavern of mahogany and shadow, lit only by the damp, weeping grey light from the tall windows and the flickering amber of the lamps. Rows of ink-stained desks smelled of lemon polish and subtle decay. At the front, the blackboard loomed like a dark void.

  There were barely twenty students, myself included. I took a seat at a front desk and arranged my books and stationery with meticulous precision. Soft murmurs and laughter drifted from behind me, but I did not acknowledge them.

  After a few minutes, Professor Sterling walked in, clutching several leather-bound volumes. He stopped before the blackboard and set his books down. That inescapable smile was still fixed on his face, though it was now tempered by a professional sternness that silenced the room.

  “Good morning, young scholars,” he said softly, yet his voice carried to the very back of the hall. “I hope you are all enthusiastic to begin the new term. My name is K. Sterling, and I shall be your instructor for Philosophy and Mathematics. Why don't we begin with a brief introduction?”

  He gestured to me to commence, his eyes twinkling with that same enigmatic mirth. I stood up without hesitation, though a subtle vexation colored my demeanor.

  “My name is Vincent Markwood. I am from Chester,” I began. “I only hope we eventually possess the wisdom to realize that our attention is a finite resource—one best invested in our own moral architecture.”

  I sat down calmly. My words earned a ripple of muttering from the rows behind me and a smirk from Sterling. He then gestured to a female student seated at the desk directly beside mine.

  She had long, wavy brown hair that spilled over her shoulders, though the strands at her temples were neatly rolled back and clipped. Her complexion was slightly tanner than my own, and her eyes were a dull, dark whiskey-brown. She stood and spoke with a quiet poise.

  “My name is Zephyr Graves. I am from Eastern Bristol. I hope we all find pleasure and beauty even in the challenging rigors of the term ahead.”

  “‘Zephyr’? What a distinctive name,” Sterling remarked. “Does anyone here know the meaning of the word, other than Ms. Graves?”

  Hands shot up across the room, yet Sterling’s gaze settled on me. “Yes, Mr. Markwood?”

  “It refers to a light wind, specifically a west wind,” I replied indifferently. “The word entered English via Latin, having been adopted originally from the Greek.”

  “Splendid. What do you think, Ms. Graves?”

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  “The description is correct,” she replied softly before reseating herself.

  I didn't find her interesting enough to glance at, but through my peripheral vision, I could sense that she didn’t bother to look at me either. Once the introductions reached the final student, Sterling turned back to the board.

  “Now that we are familiar with one another, shall we begin?” He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote a single word in bold, white strokes: STOICISM.

  “Memento Mori, Ms. Graves,” he called out.

  “Remember you must die,” she replied instantly.

  “Amor Fati, Mr. Vane.”

  “Love of fate,” replied a mud-haired lad in the middle row.

  “Carpe Diem, Ms. Beauregard.”

  “Seize the day,” answered a blonde girl a few seats back.

  “Well done!” Sterling cried. “Define the concept on the board, Mr. Markwood.”

  “A practical philosophy for life,” I said, “teaching one to direct their energy solely upon those few matters within their direct power—”

  Sterling cut me off and looked at the girl beside me. “For example, Ms. Graves?”

  “One’s own judgments and volitional actions,” she answered curtly.

  “It feels as though you wish to ask something, Ms. Graves,” Sterling said, his eyes softening as his smile sharpened.

  “Does Stoicism also teach us to discard our pleasures?” she asked.

  I was initially piqued by the interruption, but as I centered on her question, I found it disdainfully amusing.

  “Do you find pleasure to be a necessity of life, Ms. Graves?” Sterling asked.

  “I don’t even find ‘living’ to be a necessity of life,” she replied respectfully.

  “What is the concept of life without living?”

  “What is the concept of a flower without fragrance? Words without meaning? Passion without direction?”

  Sterling let out a short, huffed laugh. My face turned toward her of its own accord. My brows knitted slightly, my jaw tightening. The grey light from the window shadowed her features, highlighting a small, barely noticeable mole on her right cheekbone. I wasn't angry; I was merely surprised. Her response was unexpectedly intelligent. I did not retreat my gaze; I looked at her with the clear intention of dissecting the next words that left her mouth.

  “What is pleasure to you, Ms. Graves?” Sterling asked, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed.

  After a moment of pondering, she met his eyes. “For instance, I would say... ‘Beauty.’”

  “‘For instance’?”

  “I am not sure myself at the moment, Sir, if beauty is a pleasure or a standard,” she replied, blinking once, slowly.

  “What a tentatively fascinating mind!” Sterling cried.

  I looked back at the Professor. I harbored no fondness for uncertainty. I could swear on my honor that whatever knowledge I possessed, I was certain of its depth. Her hesitation was boring. I leaned back in my chair and pushed my silver spectacles up with my knuckle. I could sense she didn't care for the compliment; she looked at Sterling with a raised eyebrow—a look of soft, disappointed inquiry.

  “What do you think of pleasure, Mr. Vane?”

  “I don’t find it to be a moral destination, Sir,” the mud-haired boy replied.

  At his words, Graves slumped back in her chair with a look of pure, half-concealed disappointment. I almost smiled at her reaction, but I refrained.

  “And you, Mr. Markwood?” Sterling asked. “Ms. Graves sees Beauty. Ms. Beauregard sees Love. Mr. Vane sees Immorality. What do you see when you look at Pleasure?”

  “I see a surge of dopamine,” I replied precisely. “A biological mechanism to sustain drive upon achieving a desired outcome. It is what keeps one’s passion alive.”

  “Rather mechanical for a Philosophy class, don’t you think?”

  “I am open to being proven factually wrong.”

  “A Philosophy class demands Truth and Meaning, not just hard facts.”

  “Pleasure, in my view, is essential for fueling passion and the quality of one's existence,” I countered, “but becoming a slave to it leads to the decay of the mind and a dependency that lasts until one’s final breath.”

  The bell rang, cutting through the air.

  “Your homework, class!” Sterling announced. “Write a three-hundred-word essay on the nature of Stoicism and how it constitutes a noble practice.”

  I rose, gathered my belongings with clinical precision, and walked out without looking back.