The secret of the campus

The late October wind whipped through the streets of Foggia with an almost spiteful persistence, a relentless howl that wove through the city's tight alleys and swelled along the open avenues of the university campus. It carried the damp scent of wet earth, laced with the faint sweetness of fallen leaves that clumped along the sidewalks, now a soggy brown mess under the hurried feet of the last students heading to their dorms. Andrea Russo strode quickly down the main campus path at the University of Foggia, hands buried in the pockets of his faded denim jacket, hood up against the sharp chill that nipped at his cheeks. It wasn't a night to linger outside—not beneath that heavy, leaden sky that seemed to press down, snuffing out the last glow of a fading autumn. Yet Andrea had no choice: the botany lab beckoned, a quiet siren pulling him in with the promise of order amid a world that, beyond those walls, felt increasingly unmoored.At twenty-two, Andrea carried a weariness that made him feel older, as though his doubts had tacked on years he hadn't earned. He wasn't one to draw attention: messy brown hair spilling over his eyes, a soft-featured face shadowed by a near-constant shyness, and a wardrobe of worn jeans and baggy sweaters. He didn't shine in packed lecture halls or steer conversations in the corridors. He'd rather listen, watch, let life rush by while he pieced it together in his own quiet way. The lab—his little realm of pots, vials, and stillness—was where he fit best. Plants don't judge, he'd often think, a refrain for uncertain moments. They don't demand words or expect you to be anything but yourself. In that green hush, with leaves rustling under grow lights and machines humming softly, Andrea found a calm he couldn't grasp elsewhere.At that hour, the campus took on an eerie stillness. Flickering streetlights—old and unreliable—cast weak pools of light amid stretching shadows. The squat, angular buildings of the Agricultural Sciences and Technologies area loomed against the dark sky, their sealed windows like unseeing eyes. Olive trees lining the paths, emblems of Puglia's rural soul mingling with the university's modernity, swayed in the gusts, their branches creaking dryly. Andrea glanced at them as he walked, struck by their stubborn resilience in a land that wasn't always kind. A bit like him, maybe—or so he liked to imagine.It was late—too late for a Wednesday. His phone, dead for hours, sat useless in the pocket of the crossbody bag slapping against his hip. He hadn't checked the time before leaving the dorm, but the thick dark and the campus's silence suggested it was well past nine. He'd spent the afternoon in the lab, bent over a microscope studying vine leaf samples for his thesis. The work was slow and precise, calling for patience and a keen eye—traits Andrea had in spades, even if he rarely gave himself credit. A few months back, during one of their weekly check-ins, Professor Moretti, his advisor, had handed him free rein. "Surprise me, Russo," he'd said from behind a desk buried in papers, his gruff voice edged with encouragement. "You see what others miss. Use that." The words had lodged in Andrea's mind, a blend of pressure and faith that kept him returning to the lab, even when he'd rather curl up in his room with a book or a show.Moretti cut an imposing figure, in body and spirit. Tall and broad, with a grizzled beard that lent him the look of a weathered sailor, his deep voice could fill a room even at a whisper. Stern but fair, he hid a fierce love for botany beneath his rough exterior, a passion that rubbed off on anyone who worked with him. Andrea looked up to him, though he'd never say it aloud. There was something in how Moretti spoke of plants—as living things with tales to tell—that had hooked him from day one of Botany class. He still recalled that lecture, nearly two years ago, when Moretti hauled in a wilted plant, all but dead. "Look hard," he'd said, placing it on the table. "It's not done until it says so." With a gentleness at odds with his size, he'd pruned the dry bits, watered the soil, and set it under a lamp. Two weeks later, it sprouted anew—a green miracle. That day, Andrea knew he wanted to study under him.Now, nearing graduation, the vine project was his chance to prove he could be more than a bystander. It wasn't just about grades or a deadline; it felt personal—a drive to show himself, more than anyone, that he could leave a mark, however small, in a world of data and equations that sometimes swallowed him whole. The vine captivated him, its ancient roots tangled with human history. He was exploring how its cells handled environmental stress, a topic Moretti had greenlit with a rare grin. "Interesting," he'd said, leafing through the proposal. "Get it right, and it could mean something for the vintners around here." The praise had swelled Andrea with pride—and a gnawing fear. What if he fell short?The campus path was familiar, but that night it felt strange. Maybe it was the restless wind, or the fatigue tugging at his eyes. He'd pause now and then, scanning the shadows, half-expecting someone to step out. But it was just him, the wind, and the skittering leaves on the gravel. Still, a prickling unease clung to him, a whisper at the nape of his neck that something wasn't right. He shook it off, blaming his imagination. "Too much time alone," he mumbled, the words snatched away by the breeze. He picked up his pace, steps firmer, as if to outrun the feeling.The campus wasn't vast, but that night it stretched endlessly. Each building he passed—the library's dark windows, the auditorium's bolted doors—underscored his solitude. By day, it thrummed with life: students darting to class, professors lugging overstuffed bags, laughter and debates blending with cicada song. Now, cloaked in dark, it seemed to hold its breath, poised for something. Andrea wasn't one for superstition, but the air crackled with an unnamed tension. Maybe it was the cold, or his dead phone cutting him off from help. He hugged his jacket closer, hurrying on. Building B-12, home to the botany lab, loomed ahead—a plain, low block of gray concrete with a metal door more fitting for storage than science. To Andrea, though, it was more. Beyond that door lay a world he knew, a place he belonged. He stopped at the entrance, fishing out his badge. The wind lashed his face, bringing a sharper rustle—footsteps on gravel, maybe. He whirled around, squinting into the gloom, but saw only shadows among the olives. "Relax," he muttered, heart ticking faster. He swiped his badge, heard the beep, and stepped into his haven.At the lab door, Andrea pulled his badge from his pocket. The reader chirped, and the lock snapped open with a metallic click that rang in the empty campus quiet. He pushed inside, met by the earthy tang of soil, antiseptic, and chlorophyll hanging in the air. Dimness greeted him, pierced only by the greenish glow of emergency lights along the hall, painting the white walls in an otherworldly sheen. He hit the main switch, and the overhead fluorescents buzzed awake, bathing the lab in a stark, cold light that carved shadows into crisp edges. He tugged off his hood, raking a hand through his unruly brown hair, and drew a deep breath. This was home, in its way—a place where the outside world's disorder melted into the steady rhythm of science and the silent growth of plants under lamps.The lab was a controlled mess, a snapshot of the minds at work within it. Metal shelves hugged the walls, brimming with experimental plants: some mere sprouts with fragile leaves, others pressing knotted roots against clear containers, as if yearning to break free. The central tables were a jumble of vials, scribbled notebooks, and stray tools—a brush beside a pipette, a magnifying glass atop a paper stack. It was chaos with a logic only its makers grasped, and Andrea knew it by heart. He crossed to his spot, a table by the window overlooking the campus's shadowy rear, thick with bushes that danced in the wind. He rarely looked out; his universe lay here, in the microscope's lenses and slides, where each plant cell opened a door to something vast.He slung his bag onto the table and pulled out his project notebook—a plain black thing, edges worn, but dear to him. It held months of notes, sketches, and guesses about the vine he studied. He'd come to check one last thing: a slide prepped that afternoon, a leaf sample treated with a test solution to gauge its toughness. He settled onto the stool, flicked on the microscope, and tweaked the lens with practiced care. The light hummed alive, and the vine's cells snapped into view—a green lattice that never failed to draw him in. Cell walls traced a miniature realm; chloroplasts gleamed like scattered jewels in the cytoplasm. Pen in hand, he scratched notes, the sound grounding him in the moment.He was deep in that familiar flow when a noise jolted him—a rustle, like swift steps on gravel outside, then a muffled thud from the room's far end. He froze, pen dangling, brow creasing. "Anyone there?" he called, voice bouncing in the stillness. Silence answered, save for the fluorescents' drone and a grow lamp's faint tick. He set the pen down and rose slowly, pulse quickening. The lab sat at ground level, its rear windows old and prone to creaking in the wind. That could be it, he reasoned—or a stray cat in the bushes, a common enough visitor. But the sound had been too clear, too near for wind alone.He edged toward the window, peering past the glass. The lab's light bounced back, obscuring the dark, but he swore something moved—a shadow flitting through the shrubs. He narrowed his eyes, but nothing solid emerged. "I'm losing it," he murmured, retreating to his table. Yet the disquiet lingered. He sat again, trying to refocus on the slide, but his thoughts drifted. Moretti's voice surfaced: "Don't just trust your eyes, Russo," he'd said once, drumming the table. "Trust your gut. It's a scientist's first tool." Andrea leaned on facts, not feelings, but now, in this odd hush, he wondered if Moretti had a point.He grabbed his notebook, jotting the sample's details—chloroplast shapes, cell density, a quick sketch. The task steadied him, gave him purpose, though he often doubted his worth. Moretti expected much, and Andrea hated the thought of falling short. He recalled the day Moretti handed him this project—a spring afternoon, sun slanting through the windows, the air rich with fresh earth. Moretti sat amid paper piles and cold coffee. "The vine's a fighter," he'd said, passing over a data file. "Figure out how it holds up, and you'll help the growers here. It matters, Russo. Don't sell it short." Andrea had nodded, daunted but driven.The lab wasn't silent—fridges hummed, pipettes dripped, wind tapped the panes. Those sounds soothed him. But that thud stood apart, weighty and real. He stood again, firmer now, and headed to the back, where a cracked door led to a storage nook. They kept spares there—soil, pots, old gear—and Moretti often rummaged through it during their sessions. "Professor Moretti?" he called, knowing full well Moretti wouldn't be there. The man was a creature of habit: office till six, then home to his wife and dogs, a tale he'd share with a rare smirk.The door hung ajar, corridor light seeping into the dark beyond. Andrea nudged it open, heart picking up. The air thickened, tinged with a sharp, unfamiliar bite—iron, maybe, or something harsher. He stepped in, hand shaky as it sought the switch. He wasn't sure what he'd find—a toppled box, a stray critter—but the vibe chilled him. He flicked the light on, and there it was.Professor Moretti sprawled on the floor, slumped against a tipped shelf. His eyes gaped wide, locked on nothing, a dark pool spreading beneath him, soaking his ever-present white shirt. Books, containers, and glass littered the space, hinting at a fierce scuffle. Andrea stood rooted, breath snagged, mind reeling. Time stretched thin, every detail burning into him: Moretti's beard streaked red, his arm twisted wrong, blood merging with dust in sluggish streams. Then, with a strangled cry, he lunged forward."Professor!" His voice cracked as he dropped beside the body. He pressed a hand to Moretti's chest, frantic for a pulse, but the shirt clung wet and warm, his fingers staining red. Blood—so much, thick and accusing, oozing between his digits. Moretti didn't stir, didn't breathe. Those eyes, sharp with trust just hours ago, stared blank—windows to a vacant shell. He was gone.Andrea jerked back, hands quaking, and stumbled into a shelf. A box of vials crashed down, splintering with a jarring clang that snapped him taut. Glass sprayed, glinting like cruel stars under the light. "No, no, no," he gasped, clutching his head, blood smearing his hair. His mind stalled, trapped. The lab, his safe harbor, turned alien, a waking nightmare. His heart hammered, drowning out the lights' buzz and his ragged gasps.He staggered up, legs jelly. He had to act, but how? He stared at Moretti, grasping for reason. Maybe a faint, a slim hope. He knelt again, slower, and pressed fingers to Moretti's neck, like in the movies. The skin was icy, lifeless—no pulse, just silence screaming the truth. He recoiled, sobs breaking free. Not Moretti—not the man who'd nudged him to believe, who'd opened this world to him. Not like this.The room spun, edges smearing as panic surged. He glanced at his hands, blood crusting, and his gut lurched. He scrubbed them on his jacket, frantic, but the stickiness clung. "Calm down," he rasped, voice frail. "You've got to calm down." But how? His mentor lay dead, steps from where they'd pored over cells. The blood pooling there spoke a tale he couldn't face.He forced focus on the scene, seeking sense in the wreck. The toppled shelf spilled books and jars, contents strewn. Soil from a spilled box mingled with blood, a sickening blend. A notebook lay by Moretti's hand—his personal one, guarded, its neat script open to graphs. But something else snagged Andrea's eye: his notebook, the project one, sat on Moretti's bench, near the body.He blinked, lost. He never left it there—always in his bag. How? A thud broke his haze, distant, outside. He spun to the door, pulse spiking. "Who's there?" he yelled, voice swallowed by quiet. The stillness chilled deeper than the sound. He rose, eyes flicking from Moretti to the exit. He needed help—the police. His phone was dead, panic fogging him. A landline hung by the entrance. That was it.He backed off, dodging the blood's reach. Each step boomed on the linoleum. Moretti's gaze seemed to track him, heavy with blame. "I'm sorry," he whispered, unsure why. Not his fault—right? Yet his notebook loomed, a riddle he dreaded. He bolted to the main room, shadows now menacing. At the old gray phone, he fumbled 112, hands shaking, missing twice. A calm voice answered."Emergency services, how can I help?""I'm at the University of Foggia," Andrea choked out. "Botany lab, B-12. A man's dead—Professor Moretti. I found him. Please, hurry."His words tangled, "hurry" twice forced out. "Stay on," the voice urged, sharp now. "What happened? Are you hurt? Anyone there?"Andrea slumped against the wall, cold seeping in. "Not hurt," he said, gasping. "Alone, I think. He's on the floor, blood everywhere. I don't know what happened." His voice splintered, grip tightening."Stay calm," the operator soothed. "Police and ambulance are coming. Don't touch anything, stay put. Anything odd you see?"Andrea nodded, then spoke. "Yeah," he breathed, scanning. "It's trashed—shelves down, stuff everywhere. And my notebook… it's not where it should be.""Your notebook?" A curious edge."Mine," he murmured. "For my project, always in my bag. It's by him now. I don't get it.""Tell the police," they said. "Help's ten minutes out. You okay?""Yeah," he lied. He hung up, receiver clattering. The lab glared back, hostile. Moretti's eyes pierced from afar, chilling him. Ten minutes—an eternity.He edged from the phone, stopping short of the body. Blood gleamed, red fading to black. He looked away, noting the mess—shelves rifled, drawers gaping, papers strewn. A search—or a staged one. By whom? Why?He crept to Moretti's table, avoiding evidence. His notebook lay open, his writing marred by strange notes—numbers, a code, inked in margins. His heart raced. He hadn't written that, hadn't left it. His bag sat untouched across the room. Someone had moved it. When?Sirens wailed, faint then loud, lights flashing through windows. Andrea exhaled, steadying. Help was here—order, answers. And questions. He didn't know how to explain. The lab, his sanctuary, was a crime scene now, and he its first witness. He opened the door as police cars screeched up, lights blinding. Two officers and a paramedic emerged. Andrea raised shaky, blood-stained hands."I called," he stammered. "He's back there."The lead officer, stern and fortyish, nodded, eyes probing. He signaled his younger partner, and they entered, hands near holsters. The paramedic trailed, sparing Andrea a fleeting look. Wind bit his face as sirens died, boots echoing inside.The stern officer halted near Andrea, gaze dissecting. "You called?""Yeah," Andrea croaked, gesturing. "Back there." He hid trembling hands."Follow me," the officer said. "Everything. Now."Andrea trailed, unsteady, as the others went deeper. The officer cornered him in the main room. "Name.""Andrea Russo," he managed. "Student. I work with Moretti—worked. My advisor."The officer scribbled, stone-faced. "Why here so late?""Checking a sample," Andrea said. "Thesis stuff. Here all day, back tonight. Didn't expect… this."The officer eyed him. "Alone?""Think so," Andrea said. "No one seen. Heard noises—thought wind, maybe not now.""Noises?" More scribbling."Rustling—steps, maybe. Thuds, twice. One at the scope, one after… him.""You didn't see anyone?" the officer pressed."Sure of it," Andrea said, doubt creeping. "Alone."The younger officer returned, grim. "Dead. Stabbed, chest. Mess back there—torn apart."The lead nodded, expected. "Tell me finding him," he said to Andrea."I came in, lit up, worked," Andrea began, shaky. "Heard a noise, then louder. Checked back—there he was. Blood. Checked him, nothing. Called you.""Did you touch anything else?""Maybe a shelf—dropped something," Andrea said. "Too scared.""And the notebook?"Andrea pointed. "There. Mine, but not left there. Always in my bag."The officer glanced at it, unopened. "You touch it?""No," Andrea said. "Found it like that."The officer noted it, silent. Andrea felt ensnared. Hours blurred—tape went up, more cops arrived, lights and cameras flashing. In a bare office, Inspector De Luca—the stern one—grilled him, circling details."No one seen?" Again."No," Andrea sighed, drained. "Alone." Less sure each time.De Luca watched him. "Don't leave town, Russo," he said, snapping his notebook shut.Andrea nodded, spent. Dawn crept in as he left, gray and cold. Blood lingered on his hands, though washed away. The lab, Moretti, the notebook—a knot he couldn't untie. Something was off, and that night had rewritten everything