Page 43 of Hannah.

The chorus of groans repeats itself, but a few of the students, myself included, laugh despite ourselves. His joke might be stupid, but I guess there’s charm in it.

The bell signaling the end of the lecture finally rings, and the classroom starts to empty. I pack my things slowly, glad I have nothing else on my agenda today. I’m dying for a sports drink full of electrolytes and a sandwich to make this hangover at least a little more bearable.

My dorm room greets me with out-of-character chaos when I return—bed unmade, textbooks scattered across the desk, dirty clothes on the floor—clear signs that I left in a hurry this morning. Sitting my book bag down, I start to pick up here and there, but in the process of straightening up, my eyes catch sight of something that looks out of place.

It’s a manila envelope, larger than a normal letter, right in the middle of my desk. Curious, I stop what I’m doing and go to pick it up. Shock ripples through me when I read the gracefully written text on the front of it—To Hannah. From your great-aunt, Amelia.

It’s such a surprise that it takes my breath away. I’ve been so busy and so entrenched in the problems of my social life that I haven’t had much time to think about my great-aunt lately, but here she is, forcing my focus back to her. A million questionsflow through my mind—when did she leave this? How did she get in or know where to find me?

Flummoxed, my pulse pounding hard, I fall into my computer chair and carefully open the envelope, not wanting to damage anything inside. It feels stuffed full, which makes sense when I remove not just a letter but a folded map.

Dearest Hannah,

Your grandmother Margaret told me you had made it to Cambridge. I’m sure this is no coincidence. Your path brought you to England, first to my home at Stratford-upon-Avon and now here, where I used to work twenty years ago.

I can’t return for reasons I’m unable to write here, but I need my research files, which are kept at Johan’s office. Speak to him; he shall have access to them.

I’m sure you have thousands of questions for me, so enclosed you will find a map—if I can’t be there to guide you in person, at least I can give you this.

Follow the path before you, and you’ll unlock the stories that linger in the shadows of our family history. It all started with Twelfth Night.

Have the files ready, and we shall meet soon.

With a touch of mischief and a lot of love,

Amelia

A smile plays across my lips, reading the letter. Unfolding the map, I spread it out on my desk and look it over carefully. It displays Cambridge and the surrounding areas, with places conspicuously marked and dotted across the entire college. Unable to contain my excitement, I reach for my phone and dial Johan’s number. No one else on the planet will understand how I’m feeling right now or the anticipation thrumming through myveins. Whatever weirdness might be between us falls away in the face of this new clue in our mystery.

“Hannah?” His voice on the other end is warm and familiar, laced with a touch of surprise. “Is everything okay?”

“Johan,” I say, my voice shaking with my eagerness. “Amelia left me a letter and a map. Where are you, and can we meet up?”

Johan’s research office comes into view, and I must admit, it feels odd to be here for the first time in the hallway of his department. Standing before his door, I knock a few times, my pulse quickening in anticipation. I hope no one recognizes me. The last thing I need is someone to go and tell Astrid about our little encounter. The door opens with a click, and Johan’s bright face appears.

“Hey,” he says upon seeing me.

I feel a flush go from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. He’s removed the tweed suit jacket he wore during class and is in a pale blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and fitted navy slacks. He’s so effortlessly handsome and magnetic that I briefly consider two inappropriate things–throwing myself at him or running away.

“Hey,” I reply, unable to take my eyes off him.

Breaking the tension, Johan flashes a teasing smile. “Fashionably late, Miss Van den Bosch? I believe we discussed punctuality in class.” His tone is playful, as if he’s inviting me to let go of the undeniable energy between us.

I chuckle, playing along as my muscles start to relax. “Well, Professor, it’s not every day that one embarks on a treasure hunt.”

Johan’s laughter rings through the room, dissipating the remaining unease. “Ugh, please don’t call me professor when we aren’t in class.”

In my mind, a decision takes root—whatever I assumed we both felt last night will have to be left by the wayside. Johan hasn’t given me any indication that he felt the same, and my silly crush means so little compared to these new clues from Amelia. Wanting him how I do isn’t doing me any good, and I need his help now more than ever.

“Fine,” I concede. “No ‘Professor’ outside of class. Do you want to see what she left me or what?”

“Make yourself at home.” He steps aside, lets me in, and closes the door immediately.

Standing in the middle of his office, I can’t help but pace around, my eyes darting at every corner, the venerable walls whispering centuries of scholarly pursuit. The room is modest but steeped in academic charm, with towering bookshelves crammed with leather-bound tomes and stacks of papers on archaeology. Sunlight filters through the tall, mullioned windows, casting a warm glow over the cluttered desk. The desk itself is a landscape of ongoing projects: open journals, a scattering of field notes, and a laptop humming quietly. Maps and photographs from fieldwork are pinned haphazardly on a cork-board, showcasing diverse cultures and ancient civilizations. Every corner of the room is utilized, with filing cabinets filled with meticulously categorized documents and artifacts.

Behind the desk, a comfortable, slightly worn chair suggests long hours of study and writing. On the walls, I find framed portraits of scholars who came before him.

Johan stands beside me, following my gaze. “They remind me of the legacy I strive to contribute to.”

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