3
Hannah
It’s my third class of the day, and the nerves haven’t quite dissipated yet. Despite only being my second week here, I haven’t gotten lost in the immense halls with the towering ceilings yet, and I haven’t felt out of my depth either.
In fact, it’s the complete opposite. I have loved all of my classes so far; the subjects are fascinating. My brain is working overtime in excitement, hungry to learn everything each professor has to give.
This class should be more of the same. Intro to Heritage Studies is one of the more niche courses I’m taking this semester, and I’m happy about the change of pace from the other 100-level courses. The classroom buzzes with energy as everyone settles on their seat. As I take mine, a classmate hands out flyers, handing me one. The front reads “ Cabinet of Curiosities: Inside Oddities in the Victorian Era ,” with an address to what seems to be an exhibition of peculiar objects nearby. This exhibition sounds right up my alley. Oh well, even if I don’t know a single person, I’m still going. Oddities have always been my fascination, and I’m eager to see what's on display. As I set my laptop for the class, my palms itch a little with anxiety, and I rub them together to dispel the sensation.
We're all waiting for the professor when, to my greatest surprise, a tall man with golden hair and glasses walks in, striding towards the main desk by the board. Shock hits me like a bolt of lightning. What the hell? What is he doing here?
It’s been two years since I last saw him, and his changes are subtle but striking. There's a newfound depth to his charm, a maturity etched into his features. His dark blond hair falls casually over his forehead, and a hint of a beard adds a touch of rugged allure. His blue eyes, always bright with curiosity, now hold a hint of professionalism that wasn’t there before. That makes sense if he’s teaching a college course.
I really can’t believe it.
Dressed in tailored slacks and a casual button-up with a suit jacket, he exudes easy sophistication, a blend of classic style and contemporary flair. Once standing behind the desk, his confident and smooth voice fills the lecture hall.
“Morning, everyone. I’m Johan Bentinck, your substitute for today. Professor Kimberly Foster is on sick leave, so I'll replace her until she’s back with us.”
His smile is warm, putting everyone at ease. There's something approachable about him, a natural aura of mentorship that makes him more than just a teacher. He hasn’t noticed me yet; instead, he picks up the flyer about the exhibition from his desk and looks at it briefly. As he dives into discussing the Cabinet of Curiosities, his passion for the subject is contagious, captivating the entire class. “I suggest everyone to go and see the exhibition. It’s not every day you’ll see so many treasures from the Victorian Era in one place.”
Seeing him again after these two years triggers many forgotten feelings within me. He's both familiar and different, a connection to my past and a touchstone here at Cambridge. His presence intensifies my eagerness to unravel the secrets of the Cabinet of Curiosities, and I can't help but feel a surge of excitement for the adventure that lies ahead of me.
“So, let’s start by the beginning. Does anyone know what heritage means?” he asks, walking towards the board. There, he takes one of the pens and writes the word Heritage on it before his attention returns to the silent students. He paces in our direction and scans attentively through the crowd, waiting for a volunteer to speak up. Suddenly, though, Johan freezes his pacing at the front of the lecture hall and looks at me, shock written all over his features.
Oh, there it is. That sweet recognition. Between one breath and the next, I’m transported back to my brother’s wedding, trapped between Johan and Oma’s desk, feeling the thundering of his heart in his chest against me.
I’ve caught him off guard, but not for long. As quickly as he pauses, Johan snaps himself out of his stupor, and his eyes fall away from his mind. “I see everyone is eager to speak.” Laugher cracks around the hall, easing the tension among the crowd. And just like that, he turns his back on us, striding back to the board.
Okay…? That was weird. He didn’t acknowledge me at all. He's been ignoring me all week, yet here he is, teaching our class. Confusion swirls inside me. Why this sudden distance?
“Heritage is our legacy from the past, what we live with today, and what we pass on to future generations.” His voice is loud enough to pull me back from my thoughts, and I start typing his words on my laptop.
At first, I have trouble paying attention, but even if Johan leads the class, I can’t afford to zone out, so I force myself to stay focused on the lecture.
“Does anyone know why we study it?”
After throwing this question in the air, my hand shoots up almost involuntarily, a mixture of eagerness to participate and the hope to catch his attention. Our eyes meet amidst the sea of faces, and I sense his surprise. But he still pretends not to know me, his demeanor distant, like we're strangers. I answer his question, my voice surprisingly steady despite my internal turmoil.
“It connects people to their roots and fosters a sense of belonging.”
“Excellent, Miss. Thank you.” His words are polite but lacking warmth. The class moves on, but I’m left even more confused than before. Why is he keeping me at arm's length? I steal glances at him, searching for some hint in his expression, but his face remains unreadable.
A pang of hurt settles in my chest, overshadowing my excitement from earlier. I continue to try to focus on the lesson, but my thoughts are consumed by the puzzle of Johan's behavior. It’s like he’s deliberately hiding our connection, leaving me with a jumble of unanswered questions. What has changed between us? Why is he pushing me away? I can't help but wonder as I navigate the rest of the class, trying to make sense of this unexpected distance.
The final bell rings, signaling the end of the class, but my feet remain glued to the floor. Maybe if I wait until fewer people are in the classroom, Johan will give me the time of day. I toy with my pen, pretending to sort my notes, hoping to catch his eye. Seconds tick by like hours, but just when I turn to say something, he strides out, his steps purposeful, without a single glance in my direction. My heart drops. He’s so indifferent towards me…it hurts. More than I would have expected.
Why?
The question lingers, unanswered and heavy, settling in the pit of my stomach. I can't wrap my head around his behavior. As the room empties, I stand there, trying to decipher the enigma of Johan Bentinck. The urge to confront him pulses through my veins, but the invisible boundaries of student and teacher hold me back. He's my substitute, after all, at least until my main professor will return from sick leave within the next week or so.
I guess it could be just that simple. He’s avoiding me as long as he’s in the professor role. Maybe there’s some rule that professors can’t hang around students because it isn’t professional. But he could have easily told me that, so I’m unsure if it’s that simple.
The temptation to text him flits through my mind, but I resist. Protocol, respect, and maybe some fear keep my fingers from typing the questions burning within me. Does some unspoken rule forbid professors from reaching out to students except under specific circumstances, or is Johan just that reluctant to talk to me after two years?
The first reason is something I can live with, but the second makes me sad.
The minutes stretch until all the other students disperse and I find myself alone, wrestling with my thoughts. I pack my bag slowly, trying to make sense of Johan's mysterious distance. I don’t want to dwell on it, though. I’m almost done with my schedule today, but Johan ignoring me threatens to cast a dark cloud over my second week at Cambridge.
I refuse to let that happen. With a deep breath, I grab my things and exit the lecture hall. I’ll have to figure out things with him later.
With a few hours to spare before my last class of the day, I follow the address on the flyer to check out the Cabinet of Curiosities. It’s open all day today, and I don’t want to sit around with an idle mind—not when there are odd objects to investigate.
Investigate only, I tell myself. Nothing else. No touching. No taking.
It’s another cool day, but it’s so pleasant on the campus that I don’t feel any need to get transportation. A brisk ten-minute walk gets me to the exhibition, and the hall buzzes with life. It looks like the little stunt with the flyers has paid off.
Immediately I’m sucked into the artwork. Wow. These are all the sorts of things that I’ve been fascinated with since I was a kid. Oddities from ages long past adorn every corner, sparking a familiar, wild curiosity within me. It’s not a huge exhibit, but I still don’t know where exactly to start. My eyes flit from a tarnished Victorian necklace to a weathered diary, each holding a secret history I’m dying to uncover.
Amidst the crowd, a group huddles around a set of small pieces in a cabinet, their fingers tracing the lines of ancient relics. For a second, I’m angry that they’re touching these things, but the complaint fades quickly enough—probably because I know that I want to touch them, too.
Seeing them handling the palm-sized relics is almost too much. One girl holds up a preserved butterfly behind glass, the shimmering sapphire blue of it making my heart ache to own it.
Shit. I need to get out of here, or I will do something I regret.
I turn away, closing my eyes and taking a few deep breaths. When the group starts to drift away, I can’t stop myself any longer and wander over with my hands shoved into the pockets of my cardigan. There's a pull, an irresistible urge, and my fingers deftly open a jewelry box, revealing a small bracelet. Its delicate, beautiful chains tarnished by time and holding a small curio charm. I’m almost imperceptible as I slip it into my pocket, feeling a rush unlike anything else as I clutch it in my fist. I leave the box where I found it, hoping my quick act goes unnoticed in the sea of eager gazes.
So many people are checking all the same objects out that there’s no way anyone will suspect me. Picking down a thief in an unregulated place like this would be impossible.
It’s their fault, really, for leaving such precious things out where anyone can pick them up.
Perusing the other artifacts isn’t as fun now that I’m coming down from the adrenaline rush of the quick theft. One thing does catch my attention, though: A haunting porcelain doll dressed in frills and lace, golden hair still in charming little curls.
I approach the doll and look over its features, wondering what kind of little girl might have played with it hundreds of years ago.
“Quite captivating, isn't she?” The voice makes me turn on my heels, my attention falling on a woman with long, straight blond hair that gleams under the exhibit lights. “We found it in an abandoned house in the Cotswolds.”
I nod at her, unsure why she approached me in the first place.
“I’m Astrid Goschen, the event organizer,” she says with a warm smile, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “What do you think of the exhibition so far?”
I blink, stunned and a little suspicious of her friendly approach.
“We’re doing a quick audience survey for the exhibit,” she adds, bringing my attention to the clipboard and pen she’s holding between her hands. Oh, a survey!
“Eh, great. It’s my first week here, so?—”
“Oh!” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Are you a fresher?”
“I’m studying History of Art, yeah, and I took Heritage Studies as an extra class to torture myself.”
All of a sudden, a wave of excitement radiates through her. “That’s awesome! I’m doing my post-graduation in Heritage Studies, and this is one of the projects I’m working on,” Astrid says, her voice vibrating with joy before she writes a few things on the survey’s form. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Hannah,” I reply, unable to mirror her almost bubbly tone.
Astrid’s smile widens. “That’s wonderful. And where are you from, Hannah?”
The initial stiffness in my stance softens, and I smile at her question, finding her curiosity amusing. “Take a guess.”
“Hmm… Germany?”
I shake my head, causing Astrid to ponder further. “Belgium? Luxembourg? Switzerland?”
A wide grin cracks on my lips. “Netherlands.”
Astrid mirrors my expression, nodding a few times. “Hannah from the Netherlands. How wonderful to meet you.” She extends a hand, and I take it for a heartfelt handshake.
We smile at each other, feeling an instant connection. "Likewise, Astrid.” A short silence settles in once she releases my hand, and I take in my surroundings. “Congratulations on the exhibit, by the way; it’s wonderful.”
“Thanks. Sometimes I feel like the only person interested in these things, but I can tell from your face that you love them, too.”
My posture subtly shifts, shoulders easing back in a blend of pride and comfort. “Oh, yes. I’ve always been fascinated by the stories behind these objects. They're like portals to the past, aren't they?”
Astrid’s eyes light up with understanding. “Of course they are!” She touches my arm gently, gesturing for me to follow her. “Let me show you my favorite pieces.”
She leads me through the hall, the artifacts around us catalyzing our dialogue, each piece sparking a new topic. We talk about the intricate craftsmanship of a centuries-old pocket watch, the mysterious origins of a peculiar wooden mask, and the artistry behind a delicate lace handkerchief. Astrid is a wealth of knowledge, leaving me mostly speechless.
“I can see we share a passion for oddities in the realm of decorative arts,” I point out, trying to sound as eloquent as she’s been. “It’s rare to meet someone who appreciates these things as much as I do.”
“I have been thinking the same.” The palpable excitement in her voice makes my lips curve up in appreciation.
Our genuine exchange has infused my heart with a newfound lightness. In exhaling, I say, “If there’s anyone I intend to aspire to when I get older, it's you, Astrid. I hope one day I’ll have my own exhibit. What a dream.”
Just as she's about to speak, another visitor sidles up, whispering something in her ear. She nods in response, then quickly refocuses her attention on me.
“Hannah, I’ve got to go. It was lovely meeting you.” Her announcement stirs a wave of disappointment within me, and I’m certain my expression doesn't hide it. “What if we exchange contacts? Since you’re new here, maybe I could show you around.”
My eyebrows arch in astonishment at her unexpected invitation. “I’d love to, but are you sure about that?”
“Of course I do. I could show you the old town after five. What do you think? I know that place like the back of my hand.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, my excitement bubbling over. “I don’t know anyone, so that would be great.”
Her laughter rings out, a melodic sound that instantly puts me at ease. “No problem whatsoever. You’re going to be like my new protégée!”
We exchange numbers, and I bid her farewell, heading to my next class with a smile. Making friends has never been this easy for me, but Astrid is the kind of person I want to hang out with even after college. Smart with easy confidence. In control and heading an exhibit of artwork that I love. My heart feels light as I walk across the campus in the early evening, my hand clutched over the bracelet in my pocket absentmindedly.
Astrid greets me at the building's entrance right after my final class, leaving me buoyed by the excitement of acing my first week of college. She’s switched attire, ditching her heels for sneakers and her maxi skirt for a pair of chinos.
“Ready to get to know the real Cambridge?” Her voice rings with anticipation, a clear invitation to step beyond the familiar. I nod, my curiosity piqued by the prospect of uncovering the layers of history alongside her.
We step out together, the air still holding the day's warmth. Cambridge at this hour is a spectacle of light and shadow, the ancient stones of the colleges glowing with a soft amber hue. Astrid moves with an ease that speaks of familiarity, her steps in harmony with the rhythmic clatter of bicycles and the distant murmurs of fellow students reveling in the day's end.
The city unfolds before us like a living tapestry, each street a thread woven with centuries of scholarship and discovery. I play with the strap of my bag absent-mindedly, taking it all in. We pass by grand old colleges, their spires piercing the sky, their courtyards whispering tales of bygone eras. The manicured lawns and lush gardens are quiet havens, dotted with students lost in thought or deep in conversation.
As we weave through the cobblestone streets, the blend of modernity and antiquity is striking. Contemporary cafes and bookshops nestle against the backdrop of Gothic arches and Romanesque facades, a testament to the city's seamless dance between the past and present.
Walking beside Astrid, I don’t feel that overwhelming feeling of being somewhat lost at all times. Her strides are long, and the loose set of her shoulders tells me that she knows exactly where she is going. I couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide. After a while, we finally make our first stop.
With a hint of reverence in her voice, Astrid raises her hand as if presenting something: “Here we’ve got the Bridge of Sighs. More than just an architectural marvel, it's a vessel of untold stories.”
“Wow.” My eyes take in the architectural marvel with its Gothic elegance and stone intricacy. Bathed in the amber light of the setting sun, the bridge casts a serene reflection on the water below. The arched windows along its covered walkway hint at the quiet footfalls of scholars past, making the bridge not just a crossing but a portal through time, linking the present to the echoes of history. “Looks like something from a fairy tale. Why's it called that?”
“Legend has it that the name was inspired by Venice’s Bridge of Sighs. But here, it's not prisoners sighing; it's the whispers of students past.”
“Whispers? What kind of whispers?”
Astrid leans closer, her voice dropping to a hush, blending with the gentle lapping of water beneath us.
“They say if you stand here on a quiet evening, you can hear the faint murmurs of scholars from centuries ago, debating, laughing, pondering the mysteries of the universe.”
“No way! Have you ever heard them?”
“Maybe... or maybe it was just the wind. But that's the beauty of it—the not knowing, the mystery. It’s like the bridge connects not just the two sides of the river but also the past with the present.”
We move closer to the edge, peering down into the water, now mirroring the fiery streaks of the setting sun.
“So, we’re standing right in the middle of history?”
“Exactly. Think of all the students who've crossed this bridge, heading to exams, to meet friends, or maybe to find a moment of peace.”
I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cool, time-worn stone, a tangible link to those countless footsteps and whispered dreams. “It’s like we’re a part of the story now, too.”
“Yep. Every time we walk these paths and linger by these monuments, we add our own layer to the story. Who knows? Maybe one day, someone will stand here, wondering about us.”
I hang on to her every word, captivated by my surroundings––but mostly by her. “How did you find your way into heritage studies?” I ask. “It’s like you were meant for this.”
Astrid's eyes linger on the bridge, her expression softening with the fondness of cherished memories. With a reflective smile, she says, “It’s funny how paths unfold. I grew up in a house filled with old books and artifacts. My parents were avid collectors—not of valuable antiques, but of items steeped in history.” We start strolling through the town, but my full attention is on her. “Each piece had a story, and I guess, over time, those stories wove their way into my heart. It wasn't just about the past; it was about the connections, the tangible threads to bygone lives. Cambridge felt like a natural extension of that.” Her arm sweeps gently across the view. “How could I not want to be a part of this?”
Her words resonate with me, echoing my own fascination with the layers of stories that make up my small collection.
“And you?” she asks, her tone intrigued. “What made you pursue History of Art?”
It’s hard for me to open up to people, but I try to find a satisfying answer. “I guess I’ve always been drawn to the arts. The level of knowledge you hold about the history of Cambridge and the Victorian Era is something I aspire to.”
“Does your family also collect art?” she asks.
“Mostly my aunt. She’s got a gallery in New York. She’s a big collector in the art scene.”
“Oh, that’s great. And your parents?”
“Nothing to do with arts. Mom’s a judge, and Dad manages the family’s business. And yours?”
There’s a small pause before she answers. “Mom collects art, is on the board of a few nonprofits, and my dad is a businessman and politician.”
My interest is piqued. “Siblings?”
“Only child.” There’s a hint of disappointment in her voice. “You?”
“Five; two older and three younger.”
We find a small bench and sit as we continue our exchange. “Wow. Isn’t it too chaotic?”
“Tell me about it.” A small smile plays at the corners of my lips, and I take a deep breath. “Why do you think I’m here? My oldest two are at the University of Amsterdam; the last thing I wanted was to go and be among them.” I see Astrid nodding, visibly engrossed in what I’m saying. “Dad told me I was the first in the family to study abroad, which is crazy to me.”
Her lips curve into a smile, and she playfully nudges my arm. “Well, congrats, Miss Hannah. Your determination paid off, and that’s something to be proud of.”
Her words linger in the air, and I’m surprised at my real connection with this woman I only met a few hours ago. “I can't still believe I’m here,” I say, my eyes taking in the view. “I don’t think it’s set in yet that I’m a student at Cambridge. I’ve wanted it for so long.”
Astrid hums in agreement. “Just make sure to put yourself out there when you can. Too many new students hole up in their dorms, ultra-fixated on their studies. They forget to live a little. What’s the point of being here at this school if you aren’t going to experience it in full, you know?”
“I’ll try.” I have reservations about why I don’t necessarily want to be an extrovert, but I keep them to myself.
“Well, how about this?” Astrid turns to me, facing me fully. “On Saturday night, the archaeology department is hosting a private exhibition featuring English archaeological discoveries.”
“Oh?” I ask, intrigued. “Yeah, that sounds like a really good time.”
“It’s invite-only, so there won’t be any huge crowds,” Astrid explains. “There'll be everything from ancient jewelry to intricate tools. It should be amazing.”
My excitement mirrors hers. “Count me in. I can’t believe I found someone else as interested in this stuff as I am. Thank you for the opportunity, Astrid. Really.”
“Of course!” She smiles, and her nose wrinkles adorably. “It will be the best night.”