Eight forty on a Tuesday, and the seminar room is empty except for one man. Linus Trewin stands at the window with his back half to the door and a book open in one hand, and he has been there long enough for the light to move across the floor. You are early because the bus was early. He does not hear the door; he is reading a line to himself, moving his lips, and there is a coffee ring on the sill from yesterday that nobody has wiped up.

He says it to the window first, and then turns properly, and the smile arrives a half second before the rest of his face remembers where he is.

He crosses to the desk and sets the book down — a worn poetry collection with an index card sticking out of it. Then he picks your essay off the top of the pile, and he does not hand it back the way the others are handed back. He lays it flat in front of you and opens it to the last page.

he says, quietly, and pushes his glasses up with one knuckle.

There is a note in the margin in green ink, small and careful, and he turns the page so you can read it.

The bell for the first lecture goes in the corridor. He does not move.