An Afternoon in the Philosophy Department

It was a crisp September afternoon, and the philosophy department’s atrium hummed with the lingering echoes of intellectual fervor, the air tinged with the faint aroma of black coffee, the chalky residue of erased arguments, and a whisper of autumn’s dry leaves carried through an open window.

The golden light of early fall streamed through the high windows, casting long, slanted shadows across the room, their edges softening like the fading warmth of summer. Astraea Arliss stood at the podium, her long fingers aligning scattered papers with a precision that bordered on mechanical.

She tapped the stack twice—a ritualistic beat—before sliding them into a sleek black folder, her movements deliberate, as if governed by an internal algorithm only she could decipher. Her cool gray-blue eyes, framed by lashes that cast delicate shadows, scanned the room with the detached intensity of a scanner processing data—sharp, unyielding, like "syntax folded in glass."

A handful of students lingered, their footsteps hesitant, their gazes darting toward her like moths to a flame. Among them was a girl with electric-blue hair—a second-year grad student in modern philosophy—feigning interest in her notebook, though her eyes flicked upward every few seconds, tracing Astraea’s profile.

In the golden September light, Astraea’s jawline cut a clean, elegant arc, her skin pale as porcelain, her presence both commanding and distant. The blue-haired girl swallowed audibly, her confidence crumbling as she realized her hastily scribbled response to Being and Time felt like a child’s doodle in comparison. She tugged at the sleeve of her lightweight sweater, the early fall chill seeping through the atrium’s open windows.

"Professor Arliss," a boy ventured forward, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and nerves, "about that point you made on Derrida earlier..."

Astraea turned her head, her gaze locking onto his with an unflinching calm that seemed to dissect his thoughts before he could finish. The boy faltered, his words stumbling. "It’s... uh... I mean..."

"The postal metaphor?" she interjected, her voice steady and measured, a monotone that carried the weight of an undeniable truth, as if the concept were a simple equation she’d solved a thousand times.