He stepped inside. The classroom was already half full. Conversations stopped. Heads turned.
And then came the whispers. Hushed, fast, unmistakable.
That’s him!The prosecutor!
He’s the campus cop who got shot—remember that?
Did you know he’s married to that trauma psychologist at the Rainier Clinic?
The cute Jewish one who lectures here on forensic law?
Yeah!
He felt the shift in air pressure—recognition settling over the room like a weighted blanket. Some of them knew exactly who he was. Maybe all of them.
He crossed to the podium, moving through the hush with practiced ease. Years in a courtroom had taught him how to read a crowd. This wasn’t fear. It wasn’t resistance. It was a mix of expectation and a tiny bit of awe.
Then he saw the box. Wrapped in plain brown paper. No bow. No card. Just a sticky note in Joshua’s handwriting:You already survived the hard part. Now, light them up!
Colin stared at it for a beat too long.
His hand brushed the corner of the note, lips quirking into a quiet, private smile.
He didn’t open it. Not yet. He slipped the note into his folder, adjusted the box slightly out of the way, and then looked out at the sea of faces—some curious, some terrified, one already Googling his name.
He rested both hands on the podium. His voice, when it came, was calm. Confident.
“Good morning. I’m Professor Colin Campbell-Abrams. Welcome to Criminal Procedure.”
And the legend continued.
Colin’s officewas barely bigger than a broom closet, but it had a desk, a chair, and a door that closed, which made it perfect. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and set the small brown box on the desk, handling it gently as though it were fragile. He sat down slowly.
The office smelled like old books and old wood. From his chair, he could hear the sounds of the university all around him—the low hum of voices and the occasional shout of students. Through the small window, he could see the green of the commons and spruce trees that had probably been there for two hundred years.
He stared at the box for a moment longer. Then, he peeled back the tape.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a framed photograph. A candid shot of the two of them sitting on Aunt Aileen’s porch swing—Colin in a faded T-shirt, leaning back, Joshua barefoot, both of them laughing at something long since forgotten. The Irish countryside stretched behind them, soft green and gold.
The note was tucked behind the photo. Colin unfolded it carefully.
You look happiest here. So do I.
Ireland’s still there, you know. Waiting for us.And we’ll be there one day soon.
But today… this classroom is where you shine. I love you. Go be brilliant.
—J.
Colin exhaled with a shaky smile. He set the photo on the desk, then leaned back in the chair, staring at it like it might speak.
“We will be there again soon. I promise.”
Before leaving, he opened the folder where he kept his lecture notes. Tomorrow’s topic was “Miranda and the myth of the voluntary confession.” He smiled to himself. He had stories for that one.
He had textedJoshua moments after class ended, calm pride in every word.
Now, he navigated the corridors of Slaughter Hall, striding down the long passage connecting it to Clay Hall and the main exit. For a moment, he stopped and looked around him, taking it in—this place that had once been his crucible.
