The afternoon light slanted in through the high windows of the philosophy classroom, staining the walls gold and ivory. The students of Professor Ivanova’s seminar had gathered around the front, their desks loosely circled, coffee cups cooling beside stacks of handwritten notes and open books. The smell of chalk dust and paper mingled with the faint aroma of black tea from Ivanova’s thermos.

  Professor Ivanova stood at the front of the room. In her hands was a large poster printed on thick paper, the corners held together with small brass tacks. She lifted it for everyone to see.

  Saturday at Wroc?aw University, School of Philosophy, Presentation Hall! 4:00 pm–7:00 pm

  Philosophy Speeches from Students and the Philosophy Department.

  Plus, an Honoring of Anna Smirnov.

  Drinks and food will be offered. Free entry. Seats are first-come, first-served.

  The room filled with a ripple of quiet excitement, murmurs, nods, the quick rustle of someone jotting down the time. A few students clapped softly, a couple whistled good-naturedly. Something was comforting, almost sacred, in seeing Anna’s name printed like that, a reminder of her presence, her wit, her strange intensity that had once filled the classroom like light.

  Casimir, sitting near the center with his hands folded neatly over his notebook, smiled faintly. His expression was composed, his posture poised—yet the kind of composure that drew eyes, not repelled them. His tone when he finally spoke was calm, warm, and measured.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Professor. I think Anna would’ve loved this… being remembered through the same discussions she loved to challenge us with.”

  Ivanova’s eyes softened.

  “Yes,” she said, “That was the intention. To remember her where she belonged most—in dialogue.” Her voice carried that slight tremor only grief can leave behind, half gratitude, half ache. She looked at Casimir for a moment longer, then nodded as if to herself. “Thank you for helping make it happen, Casimir.”

  He inclined his head slightly, the gesture deferential, deliberate.

  “I only made a few suggestions, professor. You’re the one who turned them into something meaningful.”

  The door at the back of the classroom opened then, letting in a draft of cooler air. A few of the Wroclaw University's Philosophy department’s higher figures stepped inside.

  Three men and one woman in neatly pressed suits. The lead among them, Dr. Marek Wójtowicz, was the director of the School of Philosophy, a tall, silver-haired man whose manner was both genial and severe, the kind of man who carried himself like a chess player considering each move before it was made.

  He adjusted his glasses, examining the poster that Ivanova still held.

  “Ah,” he said approvingly. “So these are the ones I’ve been seeing outside the courtyard. Beautiful work. It’s good to see the department taking initiative. Anna Smirnov’s passing has been… difficult, but it’s right that we celebrate what she gave us.”

  The room quieted again. The students straightened in their seats, respectful. Ivanova smiled faintly, gratitude softening her otherwise stern features.

  “Thank you, sir. We wanted the students to have a chance to share their reflections and connect them to her memory.”

  Dr. Wójtowicz nodded.

  “And it’s a fine way to do it. I’ll be there myself tomorrow evening, along with a few members of the board. I look forward to seeing how it turns out.”

  He paused, scanning the students until his eyes rested on Casimir.

  “And who will be giving the honoring speech for Anna’s segment?”

  Ivanova turned to him, already prepared.

  “That will be Casimir Bielska, sir.”

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  Casimir rose from his seat, smooth and unhurried, the movement instinctively polite. His expression was calm, composed, with that faint edge of solemnity that made people listen when he spoke.

  Dr. Wójtowicz approached and extended his hand.

  “Casimir Bielska,” he repeated, as if testing the sound of the name. “I’ve heard good things about you. Your work on phenomenology and identity last semester was impressive—very rare clarity for someone your age.”

  Casimir accepted the handshake, firm but not overly so, his gaze steady.

  “Thank you, Director. It’s an honor to meet you properly. Professor Ivanova’s class has been… a gift, truly. She’s been patient enough to guide my excesses.”

  Ivanova chuckled softly behind him. “Excesses is a generous word for your essays, Casimir.”

  Laughter flickered around the room. Even Dr. Wójtowicz smiled.

  “I see you’re popular here,” he said. “Well, I’ll look forward to your speech tomorrow. It’s not easy speaking about the dead. But philosophy was never meant to make us comfortable, ain't that right?"

  Casimir’s eyes softened, their blue-grey irises steady and faintly distant.

  “I agree, sir,” he said. “It’s not comfort that defines philosophy, but how we endure the lack of it.”

  The director studied him for a second longer, the way one might study an unexpected depth in a pond thought to be shallow. Then he nodded, satisfied.

  “Spoken like a philosopher,” he said.

  They released hands. Ivanova gestured for the group of students to settle again, and the department members moved toward the door, continuing their quiet discussion. As they left, the room seemed to exhale, sound returning in gentle ripples, pages turning, chairs creaking, pens scratching faintly.

  Ivanova turned back to her students.

  “All right,” she said, tone lighter now. “You’ve heard the director. Tomorrow, I want you all here early to help with setup. Casimir, you and I will go over the speech one more time after class.”

  Casimir nodded once, still standing, his gaze distant but his smile polite.

  “Of course.”

  Around him, conversation resumed, soft, scholarly, full of the easy chatter of students discussing something that felt larger than themselves.

  For a moment, Casimir looked down at his hands on the desk, long, elegant, motionless. He thought of Anna. Of rooftops and wind and the brief, beautiful grace of falling.

  He remembered Anna's words before the realization hit her, those beautiful words of freedom.

  ***

  “Mama,” she whispered into the wind, her voice breaking into the hum of the world. “Look… I’m flying! Look at me! Haha!”

  A tram bell rang in the distance.

  Casimir had raised a hand and brushed his thumb over his palm, as though feeling where her hand had been. His fingers trembled just once — then steadied.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  ***

  Then he folded the thought neatly away, raised his eyes, and smiled when Ivanova called his name again.

  “Tomorrow,” she said quietly, “we’ll make sure she’s remembered with dignity.”

  Casimir’s expression barely shifted, but there was a flicker, something unreadable.

  “Yes,” he said. “Dignity.”

  And in that single word was both promise and irony—an assurance only he truly understood.

  Ivanovna clapped her hands lightly, her bracelets catching the fluorescent light.

  “Alright, everyone, grab your chairs. We’re setting up in the presentation hall before the Philosophy Society comes in.”

  The room stirred to life. Wooden legs scraped softly against the floor, the hum of chatter rising as the students formed uneven lines toward the corridor. Natalie helped Tina fold a table, while Marcin balanced a stack of chairs against his chest with exaggerated effort. Ivanovna led the procession through the long hall, the echoes of their footsteps bouncing off the walls like faint applause.

  They emerged into the cold air of the courtyard. Autumn sunlight streamed weakly through the thinning trees; the air smelled faintly of soil and rain. Casimir walked a few paces behind the group, carrying nothing, his expression unreadable. The garden path wound through a small stretch of yellowing hedges before giving way to the brick fa?ade of the auditorium building—a square, modern structure that somehow looked older than the rest of the campus.

  Inside, dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of light that fell through tall windows. Ivanovna’s voice drifted ahead of them:

  “Chairs in even rows, two aisles. Tables to the left. Yes—careful with that cord, Marcin.”

  Two girls at the back began setting up the snack table. They unwrapped trays of biscuits and poured lemonade into glass pitchers. One of them, a petite redhead with round glasses, paused mid-pour when she noticed Casimir standing near the far end of the hall, his sleeves rolled up, eyes half-lidded, listening absently as Ivanovna gave instructions.

  Her friend followed her gaze and smirked.

  “Eh? You like him?” she whispered, elbowing her. “I liked him first!”

  The redhead turned as red as her hair.

  “No, you didn’t!”

  Another girl passing by overheard, balancing a stack of napkins on her arm. She stopped, smiled faintly, and said,

  “We all like him.”

  The three of them laughed softly, the kind of laughter that fluttered just under the echoing ceiling.

  Across the hall, Casimir glanced their way for a fleeting moment, just long enough for one of them to go silent mid-laugh, then looked away again, expression unchanged. He adjusted a crooked chair, his movements slow, deliberate, almost tender.

  Ivanovna called out, “Casimir, could you help me with the banner?”

  He nodded and walked toward her, the laughter behind him fading into whispers.

  Outside, wind brushed through the garden, scattering pale leaves against the glass doors. Inside, the quiet returned. an organized calm before the next ripple.