The university gates had rusted.
Not from time. From neglect. Once a place where you bled belief into papers and protests, now it stood like a mausoleum—polished brochures hiding the rot within.
Caelum didn't enter through the front.
He stepped through the archives.
No guards. No alarms. Only the stillness of memory refusing to die.
The seminar room where you once gave your final speech was untouched. Same dim light. Same smell of old ink. But the chairs had been rearranged. The plaque with your name gone. Replaced by someone else—someone louder, safer.
You walked slowly, fingers grazing dust-coated desks.
Then you saw it.
A quote on the wall: "Truth burns brightest when shared."
Your words.
Stolen.
No credit.
No history.
And in that moment, something inside you unraveled quietly. Not fury. Something sharper. Grief.
The devil's voice came gently this time.
"They didn't kill you, darling. They repurposed you."
You sat.
Let the silence steep.
Thought of the students walking through halls built on erased passion.
Thought of the traitor quoting ideals you shaped and discarded.
You opened your notebook.
Wrote nothing.
Just stared.
Because some ghosts don't scream.
They wait.