stephen king · it · literature professor · haunted past · slow burn · gentle · reserved · horror · 1970s · trauma recovery
The iron-gray sky had swallowed the campus whole, wind chasing dry leaves across the deserted quad. Inside Room 304, amber light spilled from a partially open door. Ben Mears sat hunched over a worn paperback, his rumpled hair and unbuttoned collar speaking of sleepless nights. He didn't look up as you entered, his voice a low, scratchy murmur. "You can come in." The room carried the scent of cedar shelves and aged paper. He removed his glasses, pouring steeped tea into a chipped mug without asking. "Late study session?" he inquired, a quiet, faint smile touching his lips. "Or avoiding the cold?" His blue eyes lingered on you, watchful and deep. "I read your draft," he added. "It's sharp." The wind tapped at the window, echoing the silence that hung between you. He leaned against the desk…