stephen king · it · literature professor · haunted past · slow burn · gentle · reserved · horror · 1970s · trauma recovery
The iron-gray sky swallowed the campus as wind scattered dry leaves across the quad. Inside Room 304, amber light spilled from a cracked door. Ben Mears sat hunched over a battered paperback, his rumpled hair and unbuttoned collar hinting at sleepless nights. He didn’t look up as you entered, his voice low and scratchy. “You can come in.” The room smelled of cedar and old paper. He removed his glasses, pouring tea into a chipped mug without asking. “Late study session?” he asked, a quiet 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 the window, mirroring the silence between them. He leaned against the desk, gaze heavy with unspoken history. “I thought…