The bell from a far-off church chimed the half-hour. Leaves rattled faintly. Students burst from a lecture hall across the quad, the day shuffling to its next beat.

  “I should head to the lab,” Marcin said, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Meet at the fountain at three?”

  “Three,” Tina said.

  Marcin took a few steps backward, walking then pivoting, easy as always. “See you.”

  When he’d gone, Casimir turned to Tina. He inclined his head, that elegant half-bow he seemed to carry everywhere.

  “Until later, Tina Fernsby.”

  ***

  “The class you guys have been waiting for, perhaps the class that made you apply for Wroc?aw: Philosophy.”

  The voice cut through the low chatter of the lecture hall, steady and warm, but carrying a firmness that made the room settle. Professor Ivanova stood at the front, her posture as straight as a metronome. She was a tall woman in her late fifties, her silver-streaked hair pinned neatly, her expression sharp yet not unkind.

  “Well then,” she continued, sweeping her eyes across the rows of fresh faces. “First Philosophy class of the school year. Let us begin.”

  Pens were set down, notebooks flipped open. The shuffle of bags quieted.

  Near the back, Anna gripped her pen so tightly her knuckles whitened. A freshman, new to the city, new to the campus, she’d spent the entire morning lost on the campus before finally finding this lecture hall. Her heart was still fluttering, not entirely from nerves but from the electric anticipation that came with stepping into a world she’d dreamed of for years.

  Philosophy.

  She had told her parents she wanted to study it because she loved the “big questions.” But sitting here, among two hundred strangers, she wondered if she really belonged.

  Her gaze darted to the students around her: some scribbling furiously already, others leaning back with practiced indifference, a few whispering jokes under their breath.

  Professor Ivanova’s chalk tapped against the board. Click. Click.

  “Philosophy,” she said, writing the word in a deliberate hand. “Philo — love. Sophia — wisdom. Love of wisdom. A noble definition, yes? But tell me… is wisdom something you can love? Or is it something you can only endure?”

  Anna swallowed. Her throat was dry, but she couldn’t look away.

  Professor Ivanova walked a few steps across the stage, her hands clasped behind her back. “We’ll not waste time with icebreakers or games. Philosophy begins with questions. And I expect answers.”

  Her eyes landed, for a brief moment, on Anna. The contact was fleeting, but Anna felt it — a weight, like being called to the front of the class even though her name hadn’t been spoken.

  Her throat tightened. Her pen hovered above her notebook, her fingers trembling just enough that she had to set it down.

  Around her, other students scribbled notes, a few leaned lazily back in their chairs as if they’d been expecting all of this.

  But Anna wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  The silence grew until Ivanova broke it again, this time with a faint, almost knowing smile.

  “By the end of this course,” she said, “you’ll find philosophy isn’t about having the right answer. It’s about surviving the question.”

  A nervous laugh rippled through the class. Anna didn’t laugh. She only stared at the word on the board, Philosophy, her pulse quickening as if she’d stepped into something much larger than she’d realized.

  Professor Ivanova picked up the chalk again, turning back to the board. With neat strokes, she wrote a small list:

  Stoicism.

  Existentialism.

  Nihilism.

  She underlined each word once, the sound of the chalk dragging across the surface sharp in the silent hall.

  “These,” she said, “are among the most well-known philosophies of the modern age. You’ve all heard of them. Many of you have even used the words in casual conversation, without perhaps realizing what they demand of you.”

  Anna leaned forward, the page of her notebook still blank. She wanted to write, but her hand felt too stiff. The words themselves — Stoicism, Existentialism, Nihilism — seemed too heavy to copy down until she understood them.

  Professor Ivanova tapped the first word.

  “Stoicism. Ancient, practical, resilient. The belief that the world will do as it pleases, and our only true freedom is in how we respond. Endure hardship. Accept pain. Do not complain.” Her voice was calm, but it carried an edge, as if she had lived those words herself. “A philosophy of strength, of discipline. But also—of silence.”

  Anna scribbled quickly now, her handwriting messy, uneven. She had heard the word before, used like a compliment: She’s stoic, he’s stoic. But here, under the professor’s tone, it sounded far harsher. It wasn’t just strength — it was swallowing suffering until you became a stone.

  Ivanova’s hand moved to the next word.

  “Existentialism.” She underlined it again, harder this time. “Freedom. Responsibility. Choice. Jean-Paul Sartre tells us: existence precedes essence. We are not born with a purpose. We invent it. Every decision you make creates you. Every act shapes your meaning. It is exhilarating… and it is terrifying.”

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  Her words landed with weight. Anna glanced around. A few students were nodding, one boy smirking as if he already knew this. But Anna’s pulse picked up. Every act shapes your meaning. She thought about her decision to come here, about leaving her hometown behind, about the way she had stumbled through her first week alone in the city. Did those choices already define her? Was she becoming someone she didn’t understand yet?

  And then Ivanova circled the last word.

  “Nihilism.”

  She let the silence hang before speaking.

  “The rejection of meaning. The void. The belief that nothing matters, that morality, truth, value—all are illusions. Friedrich Nietzsche spoke of it often. And he warned: when we stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.” Her voice softened. “It is the most dangerous of the three. Not because it’s wrong, but because it tempts. It seduces. And once you accept that nothing matters…” She set the chalk down gently, almost reverently. “…anything becomes possible.”

  The room was very still. Even the casual smirkers had gone quiet.

  Anna realized she hadn’t breathed properly in minutes. Her chest ached, her pen hovering uselessly above her notes. She wanted to raise her hand, to ask something, but what? What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound foolish?

  Professor Ivanova walked back toward the center of the stage, her shoes clicking softly against the wooden floor. “We will return to these ideas again and again this semester. You will not leave this course the same person you are today. That is my promise—and my warning.”

  Anna’s fingers tightened around her pen. She felt both thrilled and unsettled, as if something in her had just shifted, though she couldn’t name what.

  Nihilism...

  Professor Ivanova let the silence linger after her warning. Then, with a measured breath, she clasped her hands behind her back.

  “Now,” she said, her tone softening just slightly, “I will give you your first assignment. Philosophy is not simply words to be memorized. It is confrontation. It is dialogue. You will confront one philosophy for the duration of this term. Research it. Read the texts, the critics, the defenders, the heretics. And then, you will tell me—and each other—what you have learned.”

  A murmur ran through the hall. A boy in the back whispered something to his friend, earning a sharp look from Ivanova. The professor ignored it, continuing:

  “You will each be assigned one philosophy. No two students will have the same. You may think this is unfair. Good. Life is unfair. Philosophy will not coddle you.”

  She reached into the leather satchel by her desk and lifted out a small box. Inside were folded slips of paper.

  “Your fate, as it were,” she said. Her mouth curved, not quite into a smile, but into something that hinted at irony. “Come, row by row. Draw one slip each. Do not trade them. Do not beg me for another. You will take what you are given, and you will wrestle with it.”

  The line began to form. Students shuffled forward, one by one, reaching into the box. Some came back smirking—someone had drawn Stoicism, someone else Structuralism. Another boy muttered, disappointed, “Absurdism?” and his friend nudged him with a grin.

  Anna’s palms were damp. She kept her eyes low as the line shortened, her notebook hugged to her chest. She told herself it didn’t matter what she drew, but the thought pulsed through her anyway: Please not something too difficult. Please not something I’ll fail at.

  Finally, it was her turn. She stepped forward, heart hammering in her ears, and reached into the box. The folded paper was small, almost weightless, but it felt like it carried more than it should. She walked back to her seat before unfolding it, her breath held tight.

  The word stared back at her in the professor’s neat handwriting.

  Nihilism.

  Her throat went dry.

  All around her, students were already whispering about their picks, comparing notes. Anna stared at the word until it blurred, her hand gripping the paper so hard it crumpled slightly. Nihilism.

  Professor Ivanova’s voice cut through the hum. “Good. You all have your assignments. In two weeks, you will present your first findings. I expect clarity, not summaries. Do not waste my time with empty definitions.” Her gaze swept across the room, then paused—for just a flicker—on Anna. “Some of you have been handed philosophies that will resist you. That will not yield easily. That will demand you face yourselves. That is by design.”

  Anna swallowed, her face warming. It felt like the professor was speaking directly to her, as if she already knew what word lay on Anna’s crumpled slip.

  Nihilism. The void. The temptation. Once you accept that nothing matters, anything becomes possible.

  The phrase echoed in her mind, dark and heavy, as the lecture drew to a close and students began packing their bags.

  The lecture hall slowly emptied, the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of notebooks fading. Anna lingered a moment, staring at the single word folded inside her notebook. Nihilism.

  Outside, the courtyard had grown busier, shadows stretching longer across the cobblestones. A church bell struck three o’clock, its echo rolling through the square.

  She walked quickly through the courtyard, weaving past clusters of students. The sun had shifted lower in the sky, the light becoming softer, more golden. Her shoes tapped against the stone, but she barely registered it. She needed air, needed to shake the feeling that the slip of paper was still burning in her pocket.

  Across campus, the fountain at the center of the quad gushed steadily, its spray catching the sunlight in arcs of scattered prisms. Students perched on its stone rim or lounged nearby, waiting for friends, eating snacks, talking loudly. The place was alive with movement.

  Among them, a figure crossed the courtyard with unhurried grace. His pace was steady, his scarf trailing lightly in the late-September breeze. The fabric caught the sunlight, pale against the darker tones of his blazer.

  Anna, clutching her notebook, came rushing from the side path, her nerves still tangled from class. She wasn’t looking where she was going. The strap of her bag caught awkwardly against her elbow, and she stumbled.

  Her foot slipped on the edge of a stone. She gasped, pitched forward—and her books spilled in an arc across the ground. Pages fluttered, notebooks sliding against the cobblestones.

  Heat surged to her face as she dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather them. Around her, a few students glanced, then kept walking.

  But one figure slowed.

  A shadow fell across her scattered pages. Long, careful fingers reached down, lifting the nearest book by its spine.

  Anna froze. Her hand hovered over the cobblestone as another hand—pale, steady—placed one of her notebooks gently into her pile.

  She looked up.

  Her breath caught.

  The young man kneeling beside her was unlike anyone she’d ever seen up close. His hair was pale blonde, fine strands touched by sunlight, and his eyes—clear, crystalline blue—met hers with calm attentiveness. His scarf trailed neatly against his blazer, a single note of softness against his polished frame.

  He wasn’t hurried. He wasn’t embarrassed on her behalf. He simply helped, moving with a composure that made the moment feel suspended in air.

  Anna’s face burned crimson. Her heart thudded in her chest. She fumbled, clutching her notebook tighter as she whispered, “Th-thank you…”

  The young man gave a small, courteous incline of his head, his expression serene but unreadable. “Of course,” he said softly.

  He gathered another stray paper, held it out to her between two fingers. For the smallest moment, his blue gaze lingered on the handwritten word across the margin—

  Nihilism

  —before drifting back to her face, unremarking.

  Anna swallowed hard, unable to look away. To her, he was no classmate, no stranger with a name. He was simply beautiful, impossibly so, kneeling in sunlight with her scattered books between them.