Detroit Metro Community College (DMCC) – History 101 Lecture Hall, Friday Afternoon
Alden Graves could’ve given this lecture in his sleep. Hell, maybe he was.
It was the kind of morning that made everything feel gray, even if it wasn’t. Outside, the sky hovered somewhere between weather systems — flat, dull, undecided. Inside, the lecture hall felt like it had been drained of ambition sometime in the mid-90s and no one had noticed. Yellowing walls, overhead fluorescents that buzzed like a threat, and those cracked plastic chairs bolted down like they might try to escape.
The place smelled like tired coffee and old books. Someone had spilled an energy drink near the back, and it had dried into the carpet like a scar.
Students trickled in — slow, half-assembled. Most of them still wearing the morning. Hoodies. Greasy hair. Eyes not fully awake. Caffeine in one hand, distraction in the other. Nobody looked like they expected to learn anything today.
Alden didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t warm up. Just started.
“History,” he said, voice even, almost bored, like he was reciting a grocery list. “Isn’t about facts. It’s about documentation.”
A couple heads turned. Most didn’t. Someone near the front yawned into a sleeve. In the back, a kid scrolled his phone like it was a tic.
Second row, middle — a girl was already writing. Notebook. Spiral-bound. Frayed at the edges. She wasn’t typing — she was writing. Real pen, real paper. Hoodie, jeans, sneakers with the heel worn down. Her whole posture said don’t look at me, but her eyes said otherwise. Quiet, steady. Watching.
She never raised her hand. But she was always early. Always still. Like she was waiting for something no one else could hear.
Notebook Girl.
Alden didn’t know her name. But he’d started noticing the pattern. She didn’t just take notes — she interrogated them. Every once in a while, her pen would pause mid-sentence, like she was debating the premise.
A few rows back, someone was pretending not to sleep. Their eyes blinked at mismatched intervals.
Off to the side — Mark. Or Matt. One of those. Arms folded. Leaned back. Smirk locked in place. The kind of kid who thought sarcasm was a personality and this class was a waste of his time.
Alden moved across the front of the room with the measured energy of someone navigating a nest of invisible wires.
“Before anyone starts tuning me out — yeah, you, second row — let’s get something straight,” he said. “You think history’s dry. Names, dates, dead guys. But it’s all betrayal, disease, espionage, collapse. It’s a prestige drama with worse lighting.”
A couple weak laughs. Someone locked their phone. A start.
“Modern drama gets a Netflix deal. History gets misquoted on Instagram.”
This time, a few more chuckles. One loud snort. Someone smiled and didn’t mean to.
Notebook Girl didn’t laugh. But she was paying attention now. Different kind of stillness.
Alden leaned back against the podium, arms crossed, letting the air shift.
“Take Napoleon,” he said. “Five-seven. Totally average. But the British decided he was short and angry, and boom — propaganda does the rest. Mock him, shrink him, turn him into a punchline. And once it’s in the books, it spreads. Repeats. Becomes fact.”
He let the pause stretch.
“That’s the thing about repetition. It starts to feel like memory.”
Notebook Girl stopped mid-line. Not surprised — more like bracing.
“History isn’t about truth,” Alden said. Quieter now. “It’s about resonance. The version that echoes the longest — that’s the one we keep. Doesn’t have to be accurate. Just has to stick.”
He walked in front of the screen, his shadow breaking the glow without breaking stride.
“I could lie to you right now. Make it sound ancient, or sacred, or complicated enough. Half of you would write it down.”
A few people laughed. One kid looked nervously at their notes.
“Hell,” Alden added, dry, “some of you already have.”
Notebook Girl’s eyes didn’t leave him.
“But here’s the kicker,” he said, flat again. “Some things? They get rewritten so many times, you can’t even find the original. It’s not just lost. It’s erased. Like it was never there to begin with.”
He paused. Not dramatic. Just… tired.
“And sometimes,” he said, like it wasn’t meant for them at all, “I think that’s the point.”
The room went still.
Not fear. Not confusion. Just that sudden, prickling sense that something bigger had been sitting in the corner all along.
Then the tone shifted — deliberate.
“Rasputin,” he said, lighter now. “Mystic, madman, Russian political disaster. Assassination attempts like he was running a bingo card. Poison, bullets, drowning. Still came back. Tell me that’s not drama.”
This time, the laughter was real. The spell cracked. Everyone moved again. Zippers zipped. Heads bent.
Notebook Girl flipped her page.
And underlined a phrase: resonance over truth.
Then—
A hand. Raised.
Alden sighed. Thought about pretending not to see it. Too late.
“Yes, Mark?”
“It’s Matt,” the kid said, grinning. “I Googled you.”
Alden blinked once. “Didn’t know I was trending.”
Laughter. Phones angled. People tuned back in.
Matt leaned back like he was hosting the room now. “No, I mean, I found the clips. Ankara. The Discovery stuff. That one video — you’re out in the desert with a sat phone and sunglasses, giving major ‘last guy standing’ energy.”
Alden said nothing.
Matt wasn’t finished. “It’s kinda Indiana Jones, if he had tenure.”
Notebook Girl’s pen stilled.
Matt leaned in. “So, what happened? You were doing real fieldwork. Now you’re here, teaching kids who don’t care that Napoleon was average height.”
Alden rubbed the back of his neck. “Circle of life.”
“Sure,” Matt said. “But… did you mess something up? Touch the wrong thing? Or did people just stop caring?”
Oof.
The room shifted. Everyone felt it. No one moved.
Alden looked at him. Calm. But his voice hit colder than the rest of the room.
“That’s what happens when history’s written by the ones who survive it.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Is that, like… metaphor? Or are you just being mysterious for effect?”
Alden closed his laptop.
Scrapes. Zippers. Movement. The room broke like a wave.
Notebook Girl didn’t move.
She was still watching. Not Alden. The space around him. The echo of what had just happened. Like she was listening for aftershocks.
Then she packed up. Neatly. Deliberately.
But halfway through, she stopped.
Something had changed.
Back of the room. A shift in weight.
There, leaning against the doorframe like he’d always known he’d be welcome — whether he was or not — stood a man who didn’t belong in this building, this time zone, or this version of the truth.
Leather jacket. Half-smile. Energy like an open tab. He looked like he’d stepped out of a story too big to finish.
Zeke Halloway.
He wasn’t walking in — he was arriving. And the room felt it.
Someone gasped. Phones came up. Screens glowed. Names whispered like a rumor arriving early.
“Zeke?”
“The TikTok guy?”
“Didn’t he almost get arrested?”
“Petra. That livestream—”
One girl, wide-eyed, near the aisle: “I follow you.”
Zeke grinned. Two-finger wave. “Thanks for the viewership.”
Alden looked up. Didn’t move. But the air around him thickened.
Zeke caught his eye. The grin didn’t fade — it deepened.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Alden said.
Zeke shrugged. “What, and miss your monologue on propaganda and height insecurity?”
“Office. Now.”
Zeke gave the room a mock salute. “You’ve been educational.”
Then he turned, casual as gravity.
Notebook Girl watched it all — Alden’s stillness, Zeke’s entrance, the weight between them. Her gaze narrowed, not suspicious. Just… charting. Like something had clicked.
She didn’t smile.
But she looked like she might, eventually.
To Be Continued...