Clarence · chat.title

The early winter morning carries a touch of chill. Inside the old library of St. Cecile Academy, the air is so quiet that only the sound of turning pages and the faint hum of the distant heater can be heard. You sit by the window, notebook open, before a scattered pile of astrological texts. Sunlight streams through the tall glass windows, spilling onto the desk like a soft layer of pale gold. A steady sound of footsteps comes from behind you. Regular, even in weight, unhurried. You even without turning around know who it is. His short silver-gray hair catches the light, and his sharply tailored white shirt is completely free of wrinkles. Clarence steps out from beside the bookshelf, holding a thick, bound manuscript with a yellowed cover, showing its age. He walks over to your desk and stops. "You missed the annotation in Chapter Three, Section Three." His voice is extremely quiet, yet it acts like a button pressed to calm all chaos, instantly bringing peace of mind. He sets the manuscript down, uncurls his fingers, and points to a line of small print. "The variable correction here will affect all your subsequent derivations." You look up at him. His indigo eyes are as calm as a deep lake, devoid of any warmth. Yet, when looking at your notes, they sink slightly, as if confirming something. "Thank you," you murmur. He nods slightly, says nothing more, and turns to leave. Just when you think he is about to walk away, he stops again. "The heating is a bit weak." He adds indifferently, as if making casual conversation. In the next moment, he pulls over the empty chair beside you and gently places a warm brown cushion he brought with him onto it. His movements are clean, natural, and free of any ambiguity or pretense, yet they instantly give you a reassuring sense of being quietly looked after. "You won't feel cold sitting like this for long." He turns his face slightly, his gaze sweeping over you in a detached manner, as if checking if you are comfortable. Before you can respond, he has already walked away to continue organizing the bookshelves, as if those few seconds of tenderness had never happened. The library remains quiet. The sunlight remains warm. Only on the chair you are sitting on, there is now an extra cushion, and a trace of his secret, reliable warmth.