In the morning, a blanket of mist stretched to the horizon, as though the whole world were still asleep.

The statistics instructor droned on about medians and samples. The chalk in his hand scratched the blackboard like a nail, producing a piercing screech.

During the next class, we moved to a room on the third floor. Five minutes before it began, the door swung open. The academic supervisor entered, scanned the rows, and announced crisply:

"Good morning. Just a minute. A schedule update: English is canceled today; the instructor is on professional development. Instead, there will be a lecture on public health. Attendance is mandatory. Class rep, mark everyone present. Anyone who skips — don't even bother coming to me."

The logic seminar began. We were reviewing mistakes from the previous test. I looked out the window. Beyond the trees, I could see the building where the campus clinic was located.

I wonder what Alexander Ivanovich is doing right now?

Memories flooded back. The first time I came to him, when I didn't want to go to gym class. When he gave me an enema for the first time. His even, authoritative voice still echoed in my ears: "I need to perform a palpation. I, by the way, looked through your chart — you've complained of similar pain before."

A fine tremor ran down my spine as I recalled the feeling of complete vulnerability and the strange, thrilling, yet desired relief in the minutes that followed. Warmth spread through my body as his hand lay heavy and confident on my shoulder, holding me in place.

I wonder if he ever remembers that day?

I didn't push the thoughts away. On the contrary, I immersed myself in them with pleasure, feeling a slight tingling in my lower abdomen. That day, the thin rubber of his gloves slid across my skin, bringing a coolness that was instantly conquered by the hot pulse of his palms — the contrast between coolness and warmth.

I glanced at the instructor at the board. Lera, sitting next to me, said with a knowing look:

"Oksana, I bet the third class will be a drag. Some mothball-smelling professor droning nonsense from a piece of paper for a whole hour and a half."

After the logic seminar, our group moved to the room where the public health lecture was supposed to take place. The academic supervisor looked seriously at everyone present.

"Today we will talk about public health. The lecturer is a guest speaker — a practicing physician."

Then she stepped aside, clearing the way.

"Please, Alexander Ivanovich,” she said, formally introducing him by his Russian first name and patronymic.

I froze. I felt the scent of sandalwood and rosemary fill the entire space. He wasn't wearing his white coat today. The dark blue jacket matched the dark shade of his hair and the calmness of his brown eyes. Seeing him here was pleasant and unexpected.

He placed a thin folder on the podium, surveyed the room calmly, and let his gaze linger a second longer on our row. Opening my notebook, I picked up a pen and leaned forward slightly, afraid he'd see right through me.

He turned to the board, picked up a piece of chalk, and quickly wrote a few words. His handwriting was illegible. Someone from the back row asked:

"Alexander Ivanovich, what does it say?"

He turned around, a barely perceptible smirk on his lips:

"Try to guess."

Everyone tried to figure it out. I didn't. I looked at his fingers — the same fingers that had moved so rhythmically inside me back then. That delightful feeling that started in my lower abdomen and then spread throughout my body. Those fireworks of emotion.

"Health and Wellness in Student Life," he announced.

His voice was deep and clear, making the room fall instantly silent. He walked along the board.

"Good afternoon. What do you think," he addressed everyone present, "which factors most affect the health of modern students?"

Someone from the back row shouted: "Lack of sleep!" Someone else added: "Stress!" Alexander Ivanovich nodded, listening. His gaze settled on Lera.

"Your opinion?"

"Smoking," she answered.

He glanced toward the back row.

"Correct. Smoking is like pouring bunker fuel into a Ferrari. The machinery suffers, but the driver doesn't care."

His expression grew calm again.

"And you, young man," he said, looking toward Nikita, "what do you think?"

Nikita, flattered by the attention, jumped up and blurted out:

"The computer. The computer. If you sit for a long time, your back starts to hurt."

A ripple of laughter went through the room. Alexander Ivanovich smiled faintly, the corners of his lips lifting.

"Right. Physical inactivity is one of the biggest problems students face today. A sedentary lifestyle, long hours at the computer, poor diet — all of this leads to stagnation, metabolic disorders, digestive problems. Many students come to me with various complaints. What they really need is physical activity."

He paused. His gaze settled on me. Alexander Ivanovich looked as if he were about to give me an enema right there in the lecture hall.

"What about you, Oksana? Do you attend gym class?"

I flinched. The question sent a shock of cold through me. There was nothing unusual in his gaze — only calm, steady attentiveness.

"I do," I said loudly. My white blouse was treacherously damp under the arms. Fortunately, I had a thin beige cardigan on over it. My cheeks were burning.

He nodded, as if recording the result in an invisible chart, and returned to the lecture.

"You know why students skip breakfast, spend hours glued to online games, and ignore the first symptoms of illness? You think you can borrow from your body without paying it back. Eventually the bill comes due. You know, I've learned from practice that sometimes people have to pay the bills sooner than they expect. Investing in health is always worthwhile. It’s better to take care of it in time — with sleep, movement, and attention to yourself. Health-preserving technologies aren't complicated devices or expensive courses. They're things everyone can incorporate into their lives right now. Get up every hour, walk, watch your posture, don't skip breakfast. It all sounds mundane, but it's precisely the simple truths we ignore most often."

He spoke for another twenty minutes, giving examples from his practice, asking students how many hours they spent on their phones, who ate breakfast, who felt back pain. I barely heard a word. I watched his hands, which occasionally rose to emphasize a point, and remembered how those same hands had lain on my stomach, taken my pulse, rubbed herbal ointment into my back.

When he finished, the room was quiet.

"Instead of spending another half hour lecturing on the benefits of handwashing, I'm giving you an assignment. Today, walk an extra two thousand steps. Remember — this isn't about passing some stupid test, it's about making it in life. And now — questions."

Someone asked about nutrition, others about sleep. There was a question about stress during exams. I watched his hands, now resting calmly on the podium, and thought: he remembers. He remembers everything.

The lecture ended. Students began to gather their things. Lera stood up and stretched.

"Oksana, your face is red."

"Yeah, it's hot in here."

"I'm sweating too. I wore this warm sweater this morning, and then I sat right by the radiator."

"Are you coming?"

"You go," I said. "I want to walk a bit."

She left, and I stayed, sitting and staring at the empty board where traces of his handwriting — which no one had been able to decipher — were still visible. I slowly breathed in the scent of sandalwood and rosemary. It felt like he was still here.

I stood up and left the room. At the end of the hallway, a dark blue jacket flashed. I stopped, but he didn't turn around. There was nothing to do but slowly walk toward the exit.

I stepped outside. The slight coolness of the air stung my skin. Today I'll walk an extra two thousand steps. This is my promise to him, my promise to myself. Everything was clear now: there had been a reason for his question. It was as if he'd known my thoughts from the very beginning of the lecture. Alexander Ivanovich never does anything without a reason. He reminded me. And I answered. Nothing more needed to be said.