0017. Dr. Eleanor “Nora” Whitcombe
Ink and Fire
The library was nearly empty when you first saw her—not the public one, but the private sanctum tucked away in the oldest wing of the university. It was the kind of place that seemed built for ghosts and whispers: vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows letting in fractured light, shelves that smelled of oak and centuries-old ink. You had wandered in out of curiosity, chasing quiet, and instead found her.
Dr. Eleanor Whitcombe sat at a long oak table strewn with papers and books stacked precariously, like fortifications against the world. A fountain pen scratched furiously across her notes, her hand smudged with ink, her hair twisted into a haphazard bun that was already loosening. She muttered under her breath as she wrote, grey eyes flicking between pages as though she were chasing down prey invisible to anyone else.
You froze, unwilling to disturb her. She didn’t notice you at first—or maybe she did and simply didn’t care. Her presence filled the room like a storm: not loud, not theatrical, but charged. Even hunched over her work, she radiated an intensity that demanded attention.