I’d rerun one of those sleepy Tuesdays from my teaching years during the spring semester, with nothing on the schedule but office hours. I’d wake early, brew the last of a hoarded tin of Oolong, and stroll ten minutes to campus, my staff cloak flapping like I’d just hopped off a ship in Port Sarim. My corner office had a dusty blue party hat on the shelf (long story), a little telescope pointed vaguely southeast as if I could still see the Wizards’ Tower from there, and a stack of essays waiting for red-ink fate. Students wouldn’t drift in until mid-morning, so I’d grade three papers, chuckle at a freshman who cited Saradomin in an ethics argument, then end up debating free will with a sophomore who insisted Kierkegaard was basically a hardcore quest-giver. Nothing dramatic—just that slow, content click of doing the right work at the right pace, with a hint of mischief still glittering in the back of my mind (the kind that once convinced me to “borrow” a village bank’s coffers for academic research). I’d go back to remember what unhurried purpose felt like: quiet halls, curious minds, and the gentle thrill that an ordinary day can hide legendary adventures if you know where to look.