Chapter 3 The Professors
The philosophy lecture hall was colder than outside, not in temperature, but in tone.Rows of students sat upright, notebooks ready, eyes fixed on the man at the front of the room.
Professor Henry Beckett didn’t so much speak, but his words sliced the air.
“Truth,” he said, pacing slowly, “is not a feeling. It is not comfort. It’s the knife that cuts comfort away.”
His gaze flicked toward Lila, who had just slipped quietly into the back row. “Miss.?”
She froze. “Rowan.”
Beckett stopped walking. “Rowan?”
Murmurs rippled through the class. Everyone knew that name.
He stared at her for a few seconds before turning sharply back to the board. “Right, Miss Rowan. Let’s hope your logic is sharper than your punctuality.”
Lila sat down, cheeks burning.
He continued. “Today’s discussion moral absolutism. Does it exist? Or is every decision weighed on circumstance?”
A student raised his hand. “Professor Beckett, isn’t that subjective?”
Beckett smirked. “Everything is subjective, Mr. Lowe. Including your attendance record.”
A few students laughed nervously.
Then his eyes landed on Lila again. “Miss Rowan. Enlighten us. Your sister, I believe, was also a philosophy student here before she… left us. Did she teach you what she learned?”
The room fell silent.
Lila’s chest tightened. “She..” She stopped. “She taught me that people like to use questions as weapons.”
Beckett tilted his head. “A sentimental answer, but wrong. Philosophy isn’t sentiment, It’s discipline.”
Her jaw clenched. “Or maybe it’s courage.”
That earned a few surprised looks. Beckett studied her, and something unreadable passed across his face, irritation? amusement? guilt?
“Careful,” he said softly. “Courage without logic is recklessness. And recklessness gets people hurt.”
He turned back to the board, dismissing her completely.
Lila stared down at her notebook, unable to breathe for a second. The man had the presence of someone who could dissect your entire life with a single glance and make you thank him for it.
When class ended, students bolted for the door. Beckett called out, “Miss Rowan. A word.”
Of course.
She walked up to the desk. He didn’t look at her as he stacked his papers.
“You plan to major in philosophy, yes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded slightly. “Then you’ll need to stop looking for truth in feelings. They lie.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Everyone does,” he cut in. “Especially when they’ve lost someone.”
Her throat tightened. “You knew my sister?”
Beckett’s hands paused mid-stack. “She was my student. And she was a bright student.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked up, eyes cold and tired. “It means this place eats the bright ones first.”
Lila didn’t know what to say to that.
He gestured toward the door. “Try not to be next.”
The photography department was quieter. And warmer somehow, with sunlight pouring through wide windows and walls lined with student portraits.
Here, the world looked softer at least at first.
Professor Colin Mercer greeted her at the door with a smile that felt like relief after a storm.
“You must be Lila Rowan,” he said warmly. “Henry mentioned you might be joining my class.”
“Henry?”
“Beckett,” Mercer clarified, waving a hand. “We’ve worked together for years. Brilliant man, bit of a cactus though.”
That drew a small laugh from her. “That’s one word for it.”
He smiled wider. “Don’t take it personally. He tests everyone he thinks has potential. Which, apparently, means you.”
Lila blinked. “He said that?”
“He never says it directly,” Mercer said, walking toward the front of the studio. “But the fact that he noticed you means something. He doesn’t waste breath on mediocrity.”
The compliment caught her off guard. “I didn’t think he liked me.”
“He doesn’t like anyone. But he respects talent. Give it time.”
Mercer moved around the room, rearranging photo props and talking easily. He had a calm confidence, the kind that filled a space without forcing it.
“You’re a transfer student?” he asked.
“Yes, from St. Agnes College.”
“And your sister studied here before you?”
The way he said it was careful, just curious, not prying.
“She did,” Lila said quietly.
He nodded, his expression softening. “She was talented too. I remember her photos, they were very emotive. You remind me of her.”
Lila didn’t know how to feel about that. If it was a compliment or a curse, it sounded heavy either way.
He handed her a course outline. “You’ll fit right in here, Lila. And if you ever need help, academically or otherwise my door’s always open.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Professor.”
He smiled. “Colin’s fine. Everyone calls me that. It makes me feel less ancient.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “Alright, Colin.”
As class began, he moved between students, correcting angles, showing lighting techniques, complimenting their work. He was patient, and kind the complete opposite of Beckett.
For the first time since arriving at Halden, Lila’s heartbeat slowed a bit. Maybe it was possible to exist here without constantly feeling like prey.
But when she returned to her seat after photographing a still life, something small and red caught her eye.
Lying on her desk, one perfect rose petal.
She froze. It hadn’t been there before.
Her gaze darted around the room. Students were busy, talking, laughing, no one was paying attention to her.
She brushed her fingers against the petal. It was soft and fresh.
Her pulse quickened. She looked toward the window. The sun glared off the glass, it was blinding for a second but she thought she saw a shape move outside.
Someone was watching.
When she blinked, they were gone.
She looked back at the petal. Her breath came shallow.
A voice behind her said lightly, “Lila? Is everything alright?”
It was Mercer smiling, and being gentle, unaware or pretending to be.
She nodded quickly, sliding the petal into her pocket. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
But her hands were shaking.
When class ended and the students began to leave, Lila turned back for one last glance at her desk.Where the single petal had been, now lay two.
She looked around the desks, hers was the only one with petals, was it normal?
Is it something to be afraid of? How did the petals even get to her desk?
As she thought about it, it felt creepy and she felt a chill down her spine.