# The call

The corridor outside the Gregorian University lecture hall was silent. Not the silence of a library – more like the silence of a room that was breathing. The door was closed, but a sound penetrated the wood: rhythmic, gentle, like waves lapping against a pebbly beach.

Michael Phillips heard it and smiled.

His students applauded. Not politely, not out of obligation—they meant it. He knew this because they had stopped to stand. A standing ovation in a lecture on language models and dialogue grammars was rare. But today he had shown them something they hadn't expected: that algorithms can not only calculate, but also tell stories.

He raised his hand. The applause died down.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was calm, almost quiet – but it carried to the back row. “When preparing for the exam, please take another look at the literature on GPT models. And at the theory of dialogue grammars. I can’t reveal any more than that.”

Some laughed. Others were already packing their bags.

"I wish you a pleasant day," he said. "And please don't hesitate to contact me during office hours. That's what I'm here for."

The last students left the room. The lecture hall emptied, and with each step, the silence deepened. Michael stopped, looked at the empty benches, at the chalk dust on the desk. He liked this moment. The echo of the voices, the sudden quiet—like after a concert.

Then his iPhone vibrated.

He pulled it out of his pocket. The display showed: Julia.

For a moment he didn't think. He simply answered the phone because the voice on the other end touched something inside him that he had long forgotten.

“Hello Julia,” he said. His voice sounded warmer than he had intended. “Nice to hear from you.”

A brief silence. Then her voice – gentle, but with an undertone he couldn't place.

"Hello Michael. Am I disturbing you?"

"No. The lecture just ended." He sat on the edge of the table, pressing the phone to his ear. A bus drove by outside. The window was ajar. "I'm heading home now."

Another pause. Not unpleasant. More like a breath before a jump.

“Martina encouraged me to call you,” said Julia. “She suggested you could visit us in Pompeii. You also received the invitation to the workshop at InSim, didn’t you?”

Michael frowned. InSim. The workshop. He had seen the email but hadn't replied yet. Too much else had happened in the last few weeks – a report that needed to be finished, a student who needed help.

“Yes,” he said now. Faster than he thought. “I was going to call you anyway. But you beat me to it.”

"Then come tomorrow," Julia said. Not as a question. Firmly.

Michael hesitated. One second. Two.

“I can’t drive at night,” he said. “So I’ll drive back tomorrow. But I could be with you sometime tomorrow.”

He heard her smile. You could hear it if you knew how.

"Wonderful," she said. "See you tomorrow then."

The bus outside continued driving. The window rattled in the wind. Michael hung up and stared at the black screen. His face was reflected in it – older than he felt.

He thought of Julia. Of their time together during their master's studies, the nights in the library, the discussions about Teilhard and Popper, about consciousness and machines. They had argued – often, almost always – but it had been an argument that brought them closer, not further apart.

Then she moved to Pompeii. Martina was born. And the letters became less frequent, the phone calls shorter. Until only Christmas cards remained.

And now this phone call.

Michael put his phone away, grabbed his bag, and left the lecture hall. The hallway was empty. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. He didn't know why she had called him now, after all these years. But he knew he would go.

Tomorrow, he thought. Pompeii.