Dust floated in the soft amber light that slanted through the tall windows of the Philosophy Department. The faint chatter of the students outside filled the silence as Anna stood at Professor Ivanova's front desk, clutching a neatly stapled packet. Finally, her paper on Nihilism was finished.
“Here,” she said quietly, sliding the paper across the table. “My research on nihilism. I tried to include Kierkegaard’s paradox of faith, but it didn’t fit, so I cut it.”
Professor Ivanova looked up from her desk, pushing her circular reading glasses slightly higher on her nose. She was in her late 40s, maybe early 50s — a woman with kind, expressive eyes.
She smiled faintly, taking the paper. “You cut Kierkegaard? Brave choice.”
Anna laughed softly. “He was being too dramatic.”
Ivanova chuckled, reading over the first page of the essay. “Says the girl who quoted Nietzsche in her introduction.”
“I had to,” Anna said. “You can’t talk about nihilism without him. He’s like the rock star of despair! Even my friend who's a biology major suggested it!"
That earned another small laugh. The professor set the paper aside, stacking it neatly with others.
“Well, Anna, you always have a good sense for tone. You never write like you’re trying to impress anyone. You write like you’re trying to understand. I like it! Highly impressive for a first year."
Anna smiled, lowering her eyes. “That’s kind of what I do. Try to understand things I probably shouldn’t.”
“Ah,” Ivanova said gently. “That’s what philosophy is, Mrs Anna Smirnov. A lifelong habit of asking questions we have no right to ask.”
The room fell into a quiet lull. Outside, the bell tower chimed the hour — one, then two, then three — its sound echoing softly through the old hallways.
Anna hesitated, fingers brushing the zipper of her backpack.
“Um… Professor?”
Ivanova looked up again. “Yes?”
“I… wanted to show you something. Look..."
She unzipped the bag and carefully pulled out the thin, brown picture book — The Forgotten Soldier.
Ivanova tilted her head. “That looks ancient.”
“Kind of, in a way,” Anna said, walking closer to hand it over. “We found it in the library. My friend found out that it’s not in the database. It’s… strange. When my friend, Casimir, read it, he fainted.”
The professor blinked, intrigued. “He fainted? From reading it?”
Anna nodded. “We think it’s connected to his past. Maybe metaphorically, maybe not. I know that sounds weird. But… I wanted to ask what you thought it meant. You teach philosophy, and… you’re the only one I trust to not call me and my friends crazy."
Ivanova smiled softly, touched. “Oh no! Really? That’s quite the compliment. I'm glad you feel comfortable talking to me, Mrs. Smirnov. That's what im here for, besides teaching. You're such a good student."
"Yeah! Oh- Thanks!" Anna giggled.
Professor Ivanova opened the book with care, her fingers gentle on the fragile pages. The smell of old paper rose faintly between them. She flipped through the illustrations.
“The art is beautiful,” she murmured. “It feels… melancholic. But not tragic. More like memory, fading but still warm. But yet, kind of creepy.”
Anna nodded. “Exactly. It feels like remembering a dream you weren’t supposed to see.”
Ivanova read a few lines aloud, her accent coloring the words:
He doesn’t want your bedtime books. He doesn’t want your tea. He wants the name he never had—He wants his memory. So if you feel a tapping, or hear a mournful moan... It might just be the soldier
Looking for his home. Or perhaps, Mother."
She exhaled slowly. “That’s… a profound line. There’s philosophy in that.”
“Yeah?” Anna asked hopefully.
Ivanova smiled. “Of course. It speaks of alienation — the loss of empathy through time. War makes people remember duty, names, ranks… but the memories disappear. It’s about forgetting the human.”
Anna’s brow furrowed. “But why call him The Forgotten Soldier? He’s the one who remembers.”
Ivanova closed the book lightly, resting her hand on its cover. “Because memory is cruel, my dear. Those who remember too much are always forgotten by those who don’t want to. The title isn’t about him being forgotten by history — it’s about him being forgotten by the world he once belonged to.”
Anna’s throat tightened a little. “So… it’s about loneliness?”
“Loneliness,” Ivanova said softly, “and identity. And maybe redemption. Perhaps he isn’t forgotten — perhaps he chose to disappear. But I'm not for sure... This work seems very personal and niche. I could be wrong. You'd have to talk to the author to find out the true purpose of this book.”
***
"I forgot to tell you guys this, but when I drove Casimir back to his dorm after he was discharged... He behaved differently... As if he was awoken from a dream..." Marcin sighed.
"Really? How so?" Tina asked.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"He asked me a strange question. “Marcin, do you ever think about what it means to be remembered?” I asked him why. Then he told me that some people live just to be forgotten. And some people…Some people were never supposed to exist at all.” I think... he believes he shouldn't exist...
"No way! He should exist! That is just cruel! Casimir belongs in this world. I want Casimir to love himself!" Anna exclaimed, tears welling up in her eyes.
***
Anna looked at her hands. “Casimir said once that some people live to be forgotten and that he shouldn't have ever existed. Maybe he didn’t faint because of what was written — maybe because of what it reminded him of.”
Ivanova smiled wistfully. “That’s a very wise thing to say. You always see people through their pain, not their faults.”
Anna shrugged shyly. “I guess I’ve had good teachers. Like you!"
The professor looked up at her with gentle eyes. “Do you know why I like you, Anna?”
Anna blinked, surprised. “Uh… because I hand my papers in on time?”
Ivanova laughed — a warm, genuine laugh that softened the whole room. “That too. But mostly because you remind me of myself when I was young. Always searching, always asking, always afraid of being too emotional for philosophy. But you see — emotion is philosophy, when it’s honest.”
Anna smiled faintly, unsure how to respond.
Ivanova handed the book back, her tone gentler now. “You said Casimir fainted when he read this. Maybe it’s not the book that frightened him. Maybe it’s what he saw reflected in it. Books like this… they are mirrors, not windows.”
Anna nodded slowly, hugging the book to her chest. “It’s strange. Everyone talks about logic, reason, knowledge — but none of that feels alive. This does.”
“That’s because this is a myth,” Ivanova said, her voice taking on that quiet, passionate tone she had during her best lectures. “It’s philosophy disguised as a story. And stories are what keep us from going mad when logic fails.”
Anna laughed softly. “Then maybe we all need a few more stories.”
“Indeed,” Ivanova said, smiling. “That’s why I keep teaching.”
For a long moment, the two of them simply stood there, surrounded by the scent of books and the fading afternoon light. There was a quiet understanding between them — the kind that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Anna finally broke the silence. “Professor Ivanova… do you ever feel like we’re all just… repeating someone else’s ideas? Like nothing we say is new?”
Ivanova looked thoughtful. “Of course. Every philosopher feels that way. But that’s not a curse, it’s continuity. We are not meant to create meaning from nothing. We inherit it, reshape it, and pass it on. You, Anna, will do the same one day.”
Anna smiled faintly. “I don’t think anyone would want to inherit my brain.”
Ivanova chuckled. “Oh, I would. It’s a rare one. A mind that feels too deeply to be merely clever. Don’t lose that, alright?”
“I’ll try,” Anna said softly.
Ivanova rose from her desk, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve, and walked to the window. The sun had begun to sink behind the red rooftops, casting the classroom in gold and gray. She turned back, eyes gentle.
“You know,” she said, “the boy in this book — The Forgotten Soldier — he reminds me of Casimir in a way.”
Anna looked up. “Because he’s lost?”
Ivanova smiled sadly. “Because he’s still searching.”
Anna didn’t say anything for a long time. She just looked down at the book again, tracing the faded letters of its title with her thumb.
When she finally looked up, Ivanova was lighting a small candle on her desk — something she always did in the evenings before leaving. A tiny ritual, a habit of peace.
“Why the candle?” Anna asked softly.
Ivanova smiled, her face warm in the glow. “Because even philosophers need something to believe in.”
Anna smiled too — small, sincere, the kind that reached her eyes. “Thank you, Professor.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me that not everything has to make sense to be real.”
Ivanova’s eyes softened. “Oh, my dear Anna… that’s the first lesson of life.”
The candle flickered, and the light reflected softly in their eyes. And for a brief, golden moment — in that quiet little classroom at the edge of a fading day — the world didn’t feel so cruel.
“Well, Anna,” she said, a thoughtful smile ghosting over her lips, as she finished reading the final page of Anna's report, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say this paper came from someone twice your age. It’s deeply introspective… You didn’t just study nihilism—you felt it.”
Anna laughed nervously and brushed her hair behind her ear. “I… might’ve gone a little overboard. I didn’t want it to sound depressing, though.”
“It isn’t depressing,” Ivanova said, tilting her head. “It’s honest. There’s a difference. You’re learning the same lesson Nietzsche and Camus did—truth rarely comforts us, but it always frees us.”
Anna smiled faintly at that, but then hesitated. She looked back down at the worn copy of The Forgotten Soldier. Its edges were frayed, the corners softened by time and handling. Ivanova’s eyes caught on it again.
“Ah, I forgot to ask you something about this book,” she said softly. “How did you see it?”
Anna nodded. “Yes. I… I can’t stop thinking about it. I read it over and over, but it doesn’t make sense. There’s something about it—something that feels… personal. Like it’s written for someone.” She hesitated. “But that's all I took from it..."
Ivanova adjusted her glasses and took another glance at the book. “It’s beautifully written, but… cryptic. Yeah?”
Anna nodded, plopping the book back onto Ivanova's desk.
Ivanova looked up at Anna again. “Even I can’t decipher its intent, and that’s saying something. Philosophy rarely hides—it’s usually loud, demanding to be heard. This book, though…” She trailed off, running her thumb down the spine. “It seems to whisper.”
Anna leaned forward. “So you don’t think it’s just a story?”
“I think it’s a message,” Ivanova said. “But perhaps not meant for everyone.”
The room fell quiet for a moment. The clock ticked softly above the door. Outside, students were leaving for the day, their voices faint in the hall.
Finally, Ivanova smiled warmly, handing the book back. “You know,” she said, “there’s someone who might understand it better than I do.”
Anna blinked. “Who?”
Ivanova chuckled softly. “You already know who.” She nodded toward the window, where the sunlight glowed orange on the campus rooftops. “Casimir. He’s usually up there this time of day. On the roof. He thinks I don’t know, but I do.”
Anna blinked, startled. “He—on the roof?”
“Yes,” Ivanova said with a playful smirk. “He claims he studies better up there. Personally, I think it’s his way of hiding from the noise below. But I don’t tell on him. He turns in better work that way, anyway.”
"Really?! How odd! He always seemed like a goody-two-shoes!" Anna smiled, then lowered her gaze, clutching the book to her chest. She blushed red.
Ivanova tilted her head, studying her expression. “Anna,” she said gently, “do you like him?”
Anna’s eyes widened. “W–what? No! I mean…” She laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe a little. He’s… strange, but… kind. You never know what he’s thinking, but when he talks, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Like you matter! He's so empathetic! I love that."
Ivanova smiled knowingly, her eyes softening. “That’s rare. Don’t let it slip by unnoticed.”
Anna looked at her, cheeks still red. “You really think he’d want to talk to me more often?"
“Of course,” Ivanova said. “I think he needs to. Some people carry so much silence inside them that they start to forget what it’s like to be heard. Go talk to him. Maybe he won’t have the answers you’re looking for—but maybe he’ll find some he’s been searching for himself.”
Anna hesitated, then smiled faintly. “You make it sound so easy. I never talked to him without Tina or Marcin with me.”
“That’s because they are,” Ivanova said, rising from her chair. She placed a gentle hand on Anna’s shoulder. “Go on. The sun’s setting. You’ll find him there—half hidden behind a notebook, pretending he doesn’t see you coming.”
Anna laughed softly, tucking The Forgotten Soldier back into her bag. “Thank you, Professor.”
“Anytime,” Ivanova said warmly. “And, Anna…”
Anna paused at the door, looking back.
Ivanova’s tone softened to a whisper. “You really do remind me of my younger self. Actually. too curious for your own good—but it’s that same curiosity that will save you.”
Anna smiled—soft, uncertain, but bright. “I’ll remember that. Goodbye, Professor Ivanova! See ya tomorrow!"
She stepped out into the glowing corridor, her heart fluttering between nervousness and anticipation. The last light of day stretched across the tiled floor, leading her toward the stairwell that wound up to the roof.
Up there, she knew, was the boy who always looked like he’d already seen the end of the world—and somehow, was still studying for it.
"I got this! I got this!" She muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs.