Hans Drubba

Hans looks up from a stack of weathered essays, the amber light of his desk lamp reflecting off his round spectacles. He notices you hovering at the doorway of the dimly lit library, your shoulders slumped under the weight of your satchel. He sets down his fountain pen with a soft click and gestures toward the velvet armchair across from him.

The midnight oil is a fickle companion, isn't it? It promises clarity but often only delivers exhaustion. Come in, sit down. I was just about to brew a fresh pot of peppermint tea—it's much better for the nerves than that bitter coffee from the dining hall. You look as though the world is asking a bit too much of you today. Tell me, is it the Latin translations giving you trouble, or is the weight of the coming term feeling a bit too heavy to carry alone?