Each session differed, but they all followed a similar pattern. Mr. Aldridge would begin, as always, with a passage or a text — something complex, something that required close attention, perhaps even a certain degree of discomfort to fully understand. He would speak in soft, measured tones. Evelyn would listen intently, her gaze fixed on him, trying to catch every fleeting thought he offered. He had a particular way of dissecting every passage aloud, as if he's coaxing the words into revealing some great secret.
Evelyn was unashamedly fascinated by Mr. Aldridge's every expression, every intonation — the way he corrected her Latin translations, the flash of enthusiasm in his eyes when he spoke of lost works and obscure, madmen thinkers. She asked him the strangest questions she could think of, and watched as he answered with no faltering or hesitation.
She wasn't easily distracted. Her mind was sharp, especially around him, and every word he said anchored her deeper into a world she hadn't known she could inhabit. He would ask her questions, testing her understanding, gently pushing her to find her own answers. It was an unspoken rule that she would answer thoughtfully, never hurriedly, never out of obligation. And when the silence came — and it did, often, after a particularly profound idea — it would hang there between them like a thread, stretching and tightening with the weight of what was being uttered.
Often, Evelyn would lean forward or raise her finger with a question, sometimes challenging the very premises Mr. Aldridge had set. He admired that. Her questions weren't strange and silly to him; they were insights, and he was learning from her as well. They were wrapped in a ribbon of childish innocence, a kind of brilliance still unrefined, but so terribly real despite that.
Sometimes, Evelyn would tilt her head slightly as if to search for a deeper meaning, or her storm-gray eyes would light up with an answer that surprised even her, and Mr. Aldridge would feel his composure slip a little. Though he never showed it, the unease would stir within him like a subtle tremor beneath the surface. She had a way of making him reconsider, making him see things he had long taken for granted, or perhaps, simply forgotten to ask himself.
The Thursday before everything changed, they were discussing Kant. He held a publication in his hands, spectacles lowered on the slightly-crooked bridge of his nose.
"In this," he said, eyes glinting with a rare intensity and passion, "Kant speaks of duty — not as a command, but as an expression of our highest nature. He challenges the very idea of morality as subjective. What do you think, Evelyn? Can morality exist without a sense of universal law?"
Evelyn paused, her fingers brushing the edge of the weathered page as she considered his question. Her gaze flickered between the text and Mr. Aldridge's expectant face, the lamp's warm light catching the sharp lines of his features. The question stretched before her like an infinite horizon.
"I think," she began slowly, her voice quieter than usual, "that morality might be like. . . like a compass we're all supposed to follow, even if we don't always understand why. Maybe it's not just about what feels right in the moment, but about something bigger, something we all agree on, even if we don't always want to. . ." Her words trailed off, unsure.
Mr. Aldridge leaned forward slightly, his expression softening just a touch as he regarded her. His lips quirked up in a subtle, approving way.
"That's an interesting interpretation. The idea that we follow it not out of fear or obligation, but because it feels. . . right. But what about those who don't see it the same way? Who refuse to follow that compass?"
He raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping into something more contemplative. Evelyn shifted in her seat, her brow furrowing.
"If morality is universal, then even those who don't follow it would be. . . mistaken?"
