- Fredreich Nitzche
The dorm room was cozy that evening. The small desk lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow glow over piles of open textbooks and scattered printouts. On the floor, a cardboard base of blue and green clay sprawled across a cutting mat, dotted with miniature trees, tiny hills, and a river made of translucent resin.
“Wow!!!! That’s so impressive, Tina!” Anna exclaimed, eyes wide as she leaned closer to the clay model. “I almost wanna change my major now! Philosophy sucks…”
Tina laughed, brushing a bit of dried clay off her hands. “No way! Philosophy is so cool! I could never write that much about, like… fish having feelings or whatever.”
Anna laughed too, rolling her eyes as she flipped through her notebook. “You’d be surprised how many philosophers have written about that, actually.”
They both dissolved into giggles. On the windowsill, a potted fern leaned toward the setting sun, its fronds twitching gently in the draft from the open window. Outside, the Wroclaw skyline slowly began lighting up as the sun went down.
Tina bent over her ecosystem project again, adjusting a small clay fox by the trees.
“I just want it to look natural,” Tina murmured. “Like it’s a real little world.”
Anna rested her chin on her palm, watching her with a smile. “It already does. It’s beautiful. You’re like… the god of your own tiny forest.”
Tina smirked. “That’s what the professor said when I told him my concept. ‘A microcosm of creation.’ I think he was half-joking.”
Anna chuckled and scribbled something on her paper. “Must be nice, working with clay instead of existential dread.”
“Oh come on,” Tina said, leaning back against the bed frame. “Your paper’s about nihilism, right? That’s like… the ultimate philosophical horror story. You should be having fun!”
“Fun?” Anna said with mock despair. “I’ve read five essays that basically say nothing matters. I’m one thesis away from throwing myself into the void.”
Tina snorted. “You’re such a drama queen.”
Anna grinned. “Maybe. But seriously, it’s kind of interesting. Like—why do people still live, if nothing means anything? That contradiction. I think I like that tension.”
Tina nodded thoughtfully. “See? That’s what I mean. Philosophy is cool.”
For a while, they worked quietly — Anna writing in her note book, the rhythmic scratching of the pencil mixing with the soft sound of clay squishing between Tina’s fingers. Occasionally they’d exchange little comments or hums of acknowledgment. A bird chirped outside, and somewhere down the hall, someone was playing a gentle guitar riff.
After nearly an hour, Anna stretched her arms and let out a satisfied sigh. “Okay. I think I earned a break.”
Tina looked up. “Same. My fox’s head keeps falling off. I think I angered the ecosystem gods.”
They laughed again. Anna got up and poured some water into their mugs. “By the way,” she said casually, “why didn’t Marcin come today? He said he might help you with this.”
Tina hesitated briefly, pushing the clay river a little further into place. “Oh—he’s busy. Something about errands.”
Anna pouted, leaning against the desk. “Aww. I wanted to see Casimir again.”
Tina’s eyes widened a little. “Wait—Casimir?”
Anna blinked innocently. “Yeah… he’s always with Marcin, right? He’s really interesting. And quiet. But, like… in a mysterious way.”
Tina gasped dramatically, putting a hand over her mouth. “No way. Do you like him?”
Anna’s cheeks turned a shade pinker. She hesitated, then nodded shyly.
Tina immediately grinned. “Oh my god! Anna!”
“Shhh!” Anna hissed, giggling.
But Tina was already laughing, covering her mouth with both hands. “That’s so cute! I won’t tell, I swear. But seriously—Casimir? I didn’t think he was your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Anna mumbled, looking down at her notes, though she was smiling too. “He’s just… different. I don’t know. He feels… kind.”
Tina softened a little at that, smiling gently. “Yeah. He kind of is.”
The two sat in a comfortable silence for a moment. Anna picked up the little clay fox and placed it carefully beside the miniature river.
“See?” Anna said softly. “Now he’s not alone.”
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Tina watched her, then chuckled. “You’re too poetic for your own good, you know that?”
Anna shrugged, grinning. “Maybe philosophy’s rubbing off on me.”
***
The night air over the campus was still and cool, the kind of chill that made the streetlights shimmer just a little more brightly. Marcin crossed the main walkway with a grocery bag slung under his arm, humming softly to himself — some old Polish pop song his mother used to play on the radio. The campus had gone quiet hours ago; only the occasional passing student or the distant sound of laughter from the dorms broke the silence.
He adjusted his coat, the plastic of the grocery bag rustling against his side. The bag held a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a few apples, and a pack of instant noodles — the standard survival kit for another week.
As he reached the stone path that cut between the old dormitory buildings, he noticed a figure ahead. Tall. Pale under the lamplight.
Casimir.
He was walking toward him, hands folded neatly behind his back, eyes half-lowered, as if lost in some quiet thought. His gait was unhurried — smooth, measured, almost elegant. The faint gleam of his blond hair caught the light as he passed.
“Hey,” Marcin greeted, smiling. “You’re out late. Didn’t expect to see you—”
But Casimir didn’t look up. He didn’t slow down. He walked right past him — silently, deliberately — his steps echoing softly on the cobblestone.
Marcin blinked, watching him go. For a second, he thought maybe Casimir hadn’t heard him. He turned, ready to wave, the smile still half-stuck on his face.
“Casimir?”
No response.
Casimir kept walking down the narrow path that led out toward the eastern courtyard — the one that overlooked the old chapel ruins. His hands stayed folded neatly behind his back, his head tilted slightly as if listening to something only he could hear.
Marcin frowned. Something about that quiet composure unsettled him. The way Casimir’s shadow stretched long under the streetlights, cutting clean through the orange glow. The way the night itself seemed to still around him.
He looked… calm. Too calm.
Marcin hesitated, then called out again, louder this time. “Hey! You okay?”
But Casimir didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. He just kept walking, his silhouette shrinking with each step until it was swallowed by the shadows near the chapel.
For a few moments, Marcin stood there, the wind tugging at his jacket, the plastic bag rustling faintly. A dog barked somewhere far off.
He shifted his weight, unease creeping up the back of his neck.
Then he shook his head with a small, awkward laugh. “Weird, man…”
And with that, he kept walking toward the dorms, humming again, though his tune faltered.
Behind him, at the far edge of campus, The wind moved softly through the trees as Casimir stopped at the edge of the campus courtyard. The old iron fence framed the drop below, where the lights of Wroc?aw glittered faintly in the distance — calm, golden, serene. The streetlight above him flickered.
He stood perfectly still, hands still folded behind his back, his reflection faintly visible in the dark window beside him — his expression calm, unreadable.
Then, slowly, he began to smile, the faintest curve touching his lips.
The night wrapped around him, quiet and glassy, the world seeming to hold its breath.
A moth fluttered close to the lamp above, bumping weakly against the glass. The light flickered — once, twice — and then steadied.
Casimir turned his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. His reflection shimmered faintly in the window of the chapel beside him, eyes hollow and far away.
For a moment, he looked like a statue — the pale face, the almost reverent posture, the delicate stillness that came not from peace but from total control. His breath didn’t even fog the glass.
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out the folded letter — the brown one from earlier. The faint handwriting on it was Anders’s.
Casimir unfolded it with care, smoothing the creases with his thumb. The words caught the light, dark and precise:
“Come to Wroc?aw’s adult entertainment area.
I know who the student’s mother is.
Gotta rid of her before she gets on us.”
He read it again, quietly. Then again. His eyes didn’t change — no widening, no frown. Just that faint, knowing smile.
A faint chuckle escaped him — almost inaudible, light as breath.
He folded the letter once more, tucking it back into his pocket. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if savoring the feel of the paper.
Then he looked out over the sleeping city.
***
The door to Anna’s dorm clicked open, and Marcin stepped in, shaking off the cold air clinging to his jacket. His hair was damp from the mist outside, and he carried a grocery bag in one arm. Inside the room, Tina and Anna looked up from their desks — half-finished clay projects and open notebooks scattered between them.
“Marcin!” Tina’s voice lit up the room. “You’re back!”
“Hey,” Marcin smiled tiredly, setting the bag down on the counter. “You two are still up?”
Anna rubbed her eyes, yawning. “We were working on our projects. Tina’s doing ecology. I’m…” she sighed, “still stuck on nihilism.”
He chuckled softly. “Sounds heavy for midnight.”
“It’s always heavy for midnight,” Anna muttered, closing her notebook with a soft thud.
Tina giggled and leaned over her clay ecosystem model. “You should’ve seen her face when she read some of Schopenhauer’s essays right now! She looked like she saw a ghost.”
Anna frowned playfully. “I did see a ghost. A philosophical one.”
”Schopen-who?” Marcin chuckled.
The air felt warm, cozy — the soft buzz of the desk lamp, the faint scent of coffee cooling beside them. Marcin exhaled and took a seat on the armchair near the window. For a moment, the innocence of their laughter reminded him of something far away — something normal.
But that feeling faded quickly.
Anna looked over, noticing his silence. “You okay, Marcin? You look pale.”
He blinked and nodded. “Yeah… just tired. I saw Casimir earlier.”
Both girls turned toward him at once.
“You did?” Anna asked, eyes wide. Her cheeks blushing red.
Tina’s clay figurine slipped slightly in her hand. “Where?”
“Outside. Near the chapel.” Marcin’s voice grew lower. “He walked right past me. Didn’t say a word.”
“Maybe he didn’t see you?” Tina offered gently.
“No…” Marcin said, shaking his head. “He saw me. I know he did. He just—” He paused, searching for words. “He looked different. Quiet, but… distant. Like he wasn’t really here.”
Anna’s lips parted slightly. Her voice was soft. “Is he okay?”
Marcin didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his temple and stared out the window, where the streetlights burned dimly against the fog. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I really don’t.”
Tina and Anna exchanged a glance — one of those silent looks that carried both curiosity and worry.
After a moment, Tina spoke up. “Maybe he just needs time to rest. After what happened in the library…”
“Yeah,” Marcin said quietly. “Maybe.”
But the unease in his eyes said otherwise.
The clock ticked softly in the background. Anna fidgeted with her pencil.
Tina tried to fix the crooked clay tree in her model.
Finally, Anna broke the silence. “Do you think he’ll come to class tomorrow?”
Marcin looked back at her — then gave a small, uncertain smile. “If he does… we’ll know soon enough.”
Outside, the wind whispered against the windowpane.
”Marcin? Do you still have the book?” Tina asked.
”huh?”
”Berend Vos?” Tina asked again.