Now, I had to conceal a new matter, this strange, inexplicable connection to a man I barely knew, whose hands I could still feel against my skin.
A student called out, "Dr. Kessler! Quick question about the midterm?"
I paused, summoning the professional mask I'd perfected. Standing beneath the sheltering branches of a maple, Hannah Watkins clutched a notebook against her chest. She'd been in my Ottoman Empire seminar since January—quiet, brilliant, always seated in the third row.
"I've been working on that comparative essay about Ottoman trade policy, and I keep hitting a wall."
"Which aspect?" I asked, trying to focus on her question rather than the headlines scrolling through my mind.
"The primary sources contradict each other. The Venetian merchant accounts claim the Ottomans imposed harsh tariffs that crippled Mediterranean trade, but Ottoman court records show relatively stable commerce." She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "It's like they're describing completely different realities."
Something in her observation cut through my distraction.
"That's exactly right. They were." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "History isn't only about what happened—it's about who gets to decide what story survives."
Her eyes widened slightly. "So you're saying truth is merely... perspective?"
"I'm saying truth is complicated. Contested. The Venetians needed to paint the Ottomans as oppressors to justify their own policies. The Ottoman court needed to project stability and prosperity." I paused, the parallel striking me. "When something happens today—something dramatic or violent—the first narrative that takes hold often becomes the accepted truth, regardless of complexities beneath the surface."
Hannah studied my face, sensing something beneath my academic response. "Like what's happening with that police officer from Seattle—the one involved in that death in Tahiti? The headlines make it sound so straightforward."
My breath caught. "That's... an apt comparison."
"My brother works in journalism. He says the first forty-eight hours of coverage almost always gets it wrong." She clutched her notebook tighter. "Sometimes I wonder if historians are only glorified fact-checkers for journalists who rushed to judgment centuries ago."
A genuine laugh escaped me. "That's the most insightful description of my profession I've heard in years."
She beamed. "So for the essay—focus on why the contradictions exist rather than trying to resolve them?"
"Yes. The question isn't which account istrue.It's what those contradictions reveal about the forces shaping each narrative."
She nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Kessler. That helps more than you know."
When she left, I watched her join the stream of students crossing the quad. My phone buzzed with a reminder about the faculty meeting, but I couldn't face the performative normalcy required—nodding along to budget discussions while my mind focused on Michael and mysterious login attempts.
I pulled my keys out of my pocket before I'd made a conscious decision. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a small gravel parking lot beside a memorial garden across town. Marissa and I picnicked there once, spreading a blanket beneath a crimson Japanese maple.
I sat heavily on a wooden bench still damp from morning drizzle. The garden was empty except for a groundskeeper tending distant flowerbeds. Privacy, finally.
Loving again was like lighting a match inside a cathedral built for mourning. My thoughts were heavily dramatic and literary in a way that would have made Marissa roll her eyes. She hated melodrama, preferring straightforward truth even when it hurt.
"What would you think of him?" I whispered to the empty space beside me.
The maple leaves rustled overhead, offering no answers.
My mind drifted to a conversation we'd had three months before her accident. We'd been making dinner, chopping vegetables side by side in our tiny kitchen, when she'd broached the subject of death out of nowhere.
"If something happens to me, I don't want you to wither."
I'd laughed nervously. "Planning to leave me?"
She pointed her knife at me, suddenly serious. "I mean it, Alex. Promise me you won't build a shrine."
"That's morbid."
"It's practical." She'd resumed chopping, the knife striking the cutting board with sharp precision. "Love isn't a limited resource. It's not a betrayal to find it again."
At the time, I'd dismissed it as philosophical musing. Now, I wondered whether she'd sensed something I couldn't—a premonition.
