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Smiles and light chatter spread across the faces of the traders that morning. The sun rose slowly, and the cold breeze made their exchanged stories linger a little longer.

The people of Havenbrook had lived in harmony for as long as anyone could remember. It was a small town where almost everyone knew one another. It had low crime rates, affordable food, quality healthcare, and a solid educational system. It was not perfect, but it was comfortable, and better than most places. Many residents built their lives there, running their businesses and finding little reason to ever leave.

Professor Edward Keane greeted the familiar faces as he walked toward his usual spot to buy fruit. He loved apples so much he could go an entire day eating nothing else.

"Good morning, Eddie."
"Good morning, Professor."

The greetings came easily, accompanied by casual smiles.

"Good morning," he replied to each of them, waving and smiling.

"I kept this aside especially for you, Professor," a middle-aged woman said as she handed him a bag of fruit.

"Thank you," he said with a faint smile, his glasses resting low on his nose as he took the bag from her.

Professor Edward Keane was known for his generosity and calm nature. He was loved by nearly everyone he encountered. After a few minutes of exchanging pleasantries with the older traders at the market, he drove off to Havenbrook University, where he had spent most of his life teaching in the Department of English and Literary Studies.

At the heart of Havenbrook stood the university — old, prestigious, and deeply rooted in the town's history. Its stone buildings had shaped generations of lives, Edward's included. He had once been a student there himself, graduating from the very department he now taught in. For twenty-three years, he had remained within those walls, devoted to literature and the quiet order of academia. Beyond his fondness for apples, books were his greatest love. He had published several works over the years, some of which he still used as reference texts for his students.

In terms of experience, he was one of the oldest professors at the university. There was hardly a student who hadn't heard his name, if not sat through one of his lectures. He had a good reputation; he was calm, brilliant and generous.

Edward drove a modest silver Toyota Corolla, its age showing but well maintained. Soft music from the seventies played through the speakers, filling the car with familiar melodies. He nodded along absentmindedly as he pulled into the faculty parking lot and parked with care.

The campus buzzed with energy. Students crossed paths in clusters, laughter spilling into the air, backpacks slung over shoulders. Some hurried toward lecture halls, others lingered under trees, exchanging greetings and schedules. It was the first day of a new academic session, and the excitement was unmistakable.

With a folded newspaper tucked under one arm and the bag of fruit in the other, Edward made his way into the faculty building and toward his office.

His office was exactly what one would expect of a literature professor. Tall wooden shelves lined the walls, packed tightly with books — novels, poetry collections, literary theory, and aging journals. Some books lay stacked horizontally, others leaned at uneven angles, as though they had been pulled out and returned countless times. His desk sat neatly by the window, polished but worn from years of use. A small framed nameplate rested at its edge:
PROF. EDWARD KEANE

A single chair faced the desk, while another sat behind it, cushioned and comfortable.

He placed the bag of fruit on the table, poured himself a cup of tea from the flask he kept nearby, and settled into his chair. As the morning light filtered through the window, he unfolded the newspaper and began to read, ready to begin the day.

The contents of the newspaper were nothing out of the ordinary — news about the upcoming elections in Havenbrook, winners of the children's talent show held weeks earlier, and random local stories. Edward read carefully, taking small, deliberate bites from a washed apple, as though preparing for an examination. It was simply his nature.

At exactly 7:55 a.m., the alarm on his desk chimed with its familiar tone, reminding him of his first lecture of the day. Edward preferred leaving his office at least five minutes early. Punctuality mattered to him. Arriving before time felt like respect, both for the students and for the work itself.

He gathered his bag, a marker, and the materials he would need, then locked the office door behind him.

"Good morning, Professor."
"Long time no see, Professor."

Students greeted him as he walked down the corridor, mostly faces he recognized from previous years. He responded with polite nods and quiet smiles as he made his way to the lecture hall.

***

The classroom was already filled when he entered. Students sat in neat rows, some flipping through notebooks, others whispering to one another. The room smelled faintly of paper and ink, the whiteboard clean and waiting. It was a familiar setting. One Edward had grown accustomed to over the years.

As students noticed his presence, the chatter softened, then faded into silence.

Edward surveyed the room briefly before setting his belongings on the desk. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture relaxed but commanding.

"Good morning, everyone," he said, his voice echoing easily across the room.

"Good morning, sir," the students replied in unison.

"You're welcome to Havenbrook University, and to the Department of English and Literary Studies," he began. "You probably don't value your sanity enough to have enrolled in this major."

Laughter rippled through the room.
"I'm just kidding," he added with a smile. "I'm sure you're going to love it here. I can't wait to get to know you all. My name is Professor Edward Keane, but feel free to call me Edward. I don't mind. This will be an interactive class, so don't be nervous or shy about speaking."

The students smiled, visibly relaxing. Most of them were first-year students, new to the university and the department, and Edward's easy manner immediately put them at ease.

"Alright. Before we begin," Edward said, picking up a marker and turning to the whiteboard. He wrote a sentence in bold strokes, then stepped aside.

Life itself is a story. Explain.

"What do we have on the board?" he asked.

"Life itself is a story. Explain," the class responded.

"Good. Now, who wants to give it a try? Think it through and tell me what you think."

Low murmurs spread across the room. Students exchanged glances, some shifting in their seats, others lowering their eyes. No one volunteered.

After a few minutes, a girl stood up. She was moderately tall, dressed simply, her posture confident. Her hair rested gently on her shoulders, she had sharp, observant eyes that reflected both intelligence and certainty.

Edward turned toward her, intrigued. "Alright. Let's hear from you."

She took a breath before speaking.

"Life can be seen as a story because it unfolds through a sequence of events, much like the narratives we find in literature," she began. "From birth to death, humans experience beginnings, challenges, pivotal moments, and resolutions, mirroring the structure of a plot in a novel or drama. Shakespeare reflected this idea when he said, 'all the world's a stage,' suggesting that human existence consists of roles, events, and actions that together form a narrative. Literature often imitates life..." She paused for a moment. "Basically, life unfolds the way stories do. Events occur, conflicts arise, people grow and change, and ultimately, there is a resolution."

Edward listened intently, his eyes following her every word. There was clarity in the way she spoke, as if she had rehearsed this in her mind a thousand times. When she finished, he let a pause linger; long enough for the room to absorb the weight of her answer.

"That," he said, nodding slowly, "was brilliant."

Applause rippled through the classroom, but Edward's gaze remained fixed on her, curious and quietly impressed.

"What is your name?" he asked, leaning slightly forward, genuinely intrigued.

She hesitated, just briefly, before answering.

"My name... is Tiana Henderson."