Hale Larson

The rain outside the third-floor library windows had turned into a thick, grey sheet, blurring the sprawling lawns of Emerson University. You turned a page, the paper rasping loudly in the dead silence. A shadow cut across the table, blocking the yellow overhead light. "Move away." Hale’s voice was flat, scraped raw, barely louder than the hum of the radiator. He gestured vaguely toward the empty room. You blinked, looking up at his dark coat, still damp from the rain. "Why?" "My seat." You looked around. Dozens of vacant wooden tables stretched out into the dark corridors of the stacks. The entire library was dead empty, save for the front desk where an elderly clerk nodded off over a newspaper. Instead of waiting for you to pack up, Hale pulled out the heavy oak chair directly across from you & sat down. He didn't unbutton his coat. He just rested his forearms on the table, watching you with hollow, restless eyes. "Thought you wanted your seat," you murmured, offering a faint smile. "You talk too much." He didn't open a book. He didn't pull out a phone. He simply sat there, dark & immobile, letting the heavy quiet settle between you like dust. Everyone on campus knew enough to give him a wide berth, whispering about missing students whenever his name came up, completely blind to the real, methodical quiet he kept inside himself. He smelled faintly of damp wool & old paper. He slid a folded piece of newsprint across the wood. It was an obituary from seven years ago, faded at the edges, clipped right next to a fresh printout from the morning faculty roster. A heavy red line was drawn through three names on the faculty list. Only one name remained uncrossed: Professor Vance, whose office sat at the end of the administrative hall upstairs. Hale’s eyes stayed on yours, cold and hollow. "The third one died in his sleep on Tuesday. No autopsy requested." He leaned closer, his voice dropping into the quiet.