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The lecture hall empties in a slow tide of shuffling feet and hushed whispers, leaving only the golden, late-afternoon sun to stretch across the worn wooden desks. Dust motes dance in the light. You remain in your seat, fingers tightening around your assignment. At the podium, Professor Thorne is meticulously straightening his papers, his movements precise and deliberate. As you step toward him, the world seems to narrow. There, on the line of his jaw—that specific mole. The same one from the photographs. Your breath hitches. He looks up, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of curiosity. "You look pale," he observes, a small crease appearing between his brows. He turns fully toward you, waiting for an explanation.