Rain had a way of finding Yura.
It followed her in quiet ways—through cracked windows, along damp sidewalks, into memories she never invited. That morning, the sky hung low and gray over the campus, clouds swollen and heavy, as if holding its breath.
Tap-Tap-Tap
Raindrops kissed the concrete paths leading to the New History Faculty building, each sound sharp against the silence in Yura's chest.
She adjusted the strap of her worn canvas bag on her shoulder, fingers numb from the cold. Her shoes were already damp. The soles had been peeling for months now, but replacing them meant skipping meals. Again.
It's fine, she told herself.
She always did.
She hated rainy days.
They made sounds echo too loudly. Footsteps. Voices. Laughter.
They also made memories stir—uninvited, unwelcome.
The New History Faculty building loomed ahead—old stone walls streaked with moss, tall windows clouded by age. Students clustered near the entrance, laughing, complaining about the weather, sharing umbrellas.
Yura slowed.
She didn't belong in clusters.
"Isn't she too old to be here?"
The whisper slid past her ear like a blade.
"She smells like detergent… cheap one."
A giggle.
Yura kept her eyes down and stepped inside.
_
The lecture hall buzzed with unfamiliar energy.
It wasn't the usual restless impatience before class. This was sharper—curiosity crackling like static in the air.
"Did you see him?"
"I heard he's foreign."
"No way that hair is natural."
"No, I heard he transferred from overseas—like, really overseas."
"His hair is real, apparently."
Yura slowed.
Hair?
She followed the crowd into the lecture hall, choosing her usual seat near the back. Close to the aisle. Easy to leave quietly. Easy to disappear.
She pulled out her notebook, fingers brushing over the silver crescent scar on her palm.
It itches, she thought.
The rain outside intensified.
Drip-Drip
The room filled fast.
Whispers fluttered like moths trapped in glass.
At the front of the room stood a man adjusting the podium microphone.
Yura stopped breathing.
He was tall—noticeably so. His posture was straight but unforced, as if standing like this was simply natural. Moon-white hair fell neatly over his shoulders, catching the fluorescent lights in a way that made it almost… glow.
Not dyed.
Not silver.
White.
He wore thin-framed glasses that rested low on the bridge of his nose, and when he pushed them up with one finger, something in Yura's chest twisted painfully.
Don't stare.
She stared.
Her brain, traitorous and unhelpful, supplied commentary without permission.
He looks like the kind of man romance novels kill off halfway through.
Or worse—
The kind who waits centuries for someone who doesn't even know he exists.
Yura swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to her notebook.
Get a grip. He's just a professor.
But professors weren't supposed to look like that.
He didn't smile broadly. Didn't command attention.
He simply existed.
And the room leaned toward him.
And then—
Her scar burned.
No.
She clenched her fist under the desk, nails biting into her skin.
The professor smiled.
It was polite.
Warm.
Perfect.
Fake.
"Good morning," he said smoothly. His voice was calm, cultured, lightly accented. "I am Professor Elyndor. I will be teaching Contemporary Myth Structures this semester."
A ripple went through the hall.
Questions followed immediately.
"Sir, is your hair real?"
"Are you mixed?"
"Where are you from?"
He chuckled softly, amused.
"I assure you," Elyndor replied, "this is my natural hair color."
Gasps. Laughter. Admiration.
His gaze drifted again—effortless, casual—and brushed past Yura like a whisper.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Thump-Thump-Thump
For the briefest second, his fingers tightened against the lectern.
No one noticed.
Except him.
But, Yura felt… strange.
Not nervous.
Not exactly.
More like—
She frowned faintly.
Why does it smell like rain… and pine?
She inhaled again.
The scent wasn't dirty or sharp like the rain outside. It was clean. Cold. Like air after a storm deep in the mountains.
Her fingers twitched.
I must be imagining things.
"Before we begin," Elyndor continued, "attendance."
The room rustled as students adjusted in their seats.
He began calling names.
Each one was spoken clearly. Evenly. Politely.
No warmth.
No coldness.
Just professionalism.
Until—
"Yura… Dela Vega."
Her name.
It sounded different.
Lower.
Softer.
As if he'd taken care with it.
Her heart stuttered.
"Yes—! I mean—present."
A few students snickered.
Heat rushed to her face.
Stupid. Why do I always sound stupid?
She focused on her notebook, mortified.
At the front of the room, Elyndor paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Long enough for his fingers to curl slightly at his side.
Long enough for the rain outside to tap harder against the windows.
Then he moved on.
---
The lecture passed in a blur.
Yura wrote diligently, even as her thoughts wandered.
She noticed things she didn't mean to.
How he never raised his voice.
How his gaze skimmed the room without lingering—except, occasionally, just barely, near the back.
How his smile, when students asked questions, was kind… but distant. Like a mask worn perfectly.
She tried to focus.
She really did.
But every word he spoke seemed to hum beneath her skin.
"—myths are not lies," Professor Elyndor said, writing on the board. "They are memories. Distorted, perhaps. But memories nonetheless."
Her pen trembled.
A memory surfaced—rain against metal, the scent of pine, heat against her palm.
Her chest tightened.
"Miss?"
Yura flinched.
"Yes?"
His eyes were on her.
Not curious.
Not judging.
…Careful.
"Would you like to share your thoughts on the subject?"
The room turned.
Heat crawled up her neck.
"I—I think," Yura said softly, forcing her voice steady, "that myths survive because someone needed them to. Because forgetting would hurt more."
Silence.
Elyndor's breath caught.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then he smiled.
"…An excellent observation," he said gently.
Something unspoken passed between them.
A restraint.
A promise.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Low.
Distant.
Waiting.
---
When the bell rang, chairs scraped back immediately.
Students swarmed out, buzzing with excitement.
"Did you hear his accent?"
"I swear he looked at me."
"Do you think his hair's real?"
Yura stayed seated.
As always.
She waited until the room was nearly empty before standing.
From her bag, she pulled out a small cloth—damp, faintly smelling of soap from the dorm laundry machines. She stacked chairs, wiped desks, moved quietly.
It was a small job.
Paid under the table. Unofficial.
But it helped with food. With notebooks. With things she didn't want to ask her aunt for.
She reached the podium last.
As she wiped its surface, a familiar pressure settled between her shoulder blades.
That feeling again.
Like being watched.
She looked up.
Elyndor was still there.
He stood near the window, rain tracing silver lines down the glass behind him. His reflection overlapped hers faintly.
"You don't need to do that," he said gently.
Yura stiffened. "I—ah—it's okay. I'm used to it."
Used to staying late.
Used to being invisible.
Something in his gaze shifted.
"That," he said quietly, "is unfortunate."
Her palm burned.
She gasped softly, clutching her hand as the crescent-shaped scar beneath her skin pulsed with heat.
Outside, the rain slowed.
As if listening.
Yura lowered her eyes, heart pounding.
She didn't know why—but for the first time in years…
She felt like someone had finally noticed she existed.
~🫶