Sometimes, the ancient Greeks understood nervous systems better than therapists.
Ancient words had always calmed me.
For a second, I let myself imagine writing something that carried even half the weight of the epics, the classics. A poem.A story. Anything. Then, the truth slammed into me with its usual force.
I would never finish anything. Not when I tore up every draft before it reached page two. Not when my own mind felt like a committee arguing over the right to use the same pen.
“And there it is,” I added softly. “That’s the point.”
Silence.
Then—
“Ms. Ripley?”
I turned.
Three interns stood frozen in the doorway. They had clearly been there long enough to witness me correcting a fourteenth-century scholar in another language.
Intern One blinked. “Were you… speaking Greek?”
“Yes,” I said.
They stared at me like I had just levitated.
Intern Two whispered, not quietly enough, “She does that?”
Intern Three whispered back, “That’s terrifying.”
I pressed my lips together to prevent either a smile or a sigh. Both would have been misinterpreted.
“What do you need?” I asked.
Intern One swallowed. “The lights flickered.”
As if summoned, thunder cracked again. The lights dimmed for half a second, then steadied. I stared up at them. “Don’t youfucking dare.”
My brain immediately did the math.
Electrical surge. Humidity fluctuation. Temperature variance. Paper expansion risk.
I moved before finishing the thought, crossing to the environmental panel.
“Building surge protocol compensates automatically,” I said, checking the readings. “We’re stable.”
The interns continued staring.
Intern Two leaned forward. “Should we… evacuate?”
“For a thunderstorm?”
Intern Three nodded.
“No,” I said. “If the building catches fire, we save the incunabula first.”
They went very still.
“Was that a joke?” Intern One asked.
