Today is Monday

Professor Elias Gray was known for his eccentricities. An older man with a thin, wiry frame and a shock of silver hair, he had once been a vibrant, quick-witted lecturer, captivating students with his profound ideas and his refusal to take shortcuts with the truth. But over the years, Elias had become slower, more deliberate in his speech. Rumors circulated among his students: some said he’d experienced a trauma that had fundamentally changed him, others thought he was merely succumbing to the weariness of old age.

Years earlier, Elias had been happily married to a fellow scholar, Margaret, a brilliant woman with a sharp mind and a love for philosophical debates. They shared everything, from complex theories to simple daily joys. One evening, Margaret was late returning from a lecture at another university. Elias waited for her by the fire, reading as he always did. The minutes ticked by, then hours, and finally, as dawn approached, he heard the terrible news: she’d been in an accident, gone in an instant.

In the days that followed, Elias clung to the belief that she would return. He’d say, “She’ll be back today,” or “Tomorrow, surely tomorrow.” But day after day, he was met with silence. As weeks passed, he found himself unable to say anything he wasn’t absolutely certain of. Perhaps it was a way of coping, a vow to never again experience the heartbreak of promises broken by fate. He began to speak only of what he could know with certainty.

He developed a peculiar ritual: every Sunday night, he would lecture his students, guiding them through profound philosophical and mathematical ideas. But as the hours passed and midnight drew near, he’d grow quieter, eventually lapsing into silence, his lips pressed tight. It was as though he was waiting for something. Then, as dawn approached, he would say, “Today is Monday.” A simple truth, but one he waited for with reverence.

For Professor Gray, the arrival of Monday was more than just the start of a new day; it was a moment that reminded him of life’s delicate balance, of how close one could be to losing what mattered most. Speaking only the truth had become his own small way of keeping the world stable.

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