“How does one tell a well-structured story, when life is absolute chaos?”

The professor paused for dramatic effect and paced slowly at the foot of the auditorium. The sleeves of the button-up shirt under his sweater vest were rolled halfway up the forearm. His peppered hair hinted at his years, but it was said he had an appeal that improved with age, like a fine wine.

It wasn’t because of his looks, however, that his students held their breath, waiting for his answer. It wasn’t because of his discourse either, despite how spellbound it kept them. Maybe the number of bestselling authors who credited him in their books had something to do with it.

Chaos. That word, which automatically brings a tag of negativity, can be a welcome thing to the right person. The professor opened the door to his large, Victorian home. He hung his umbrella on the hook and closed the door behind him. The click of it latching shut echoed through the house. The man hung his jacket and scarf on one of the other hooks and changed from his shoes to his slippers. The insistent tick tick tick coming from the clock on the mantle in the living room joined the shuffling of his slippers on the oak parquet floor from the hallway to the kitchen.

He did the same thing as he did at the end of every work day: Heat up water in the kettle; get out two saucers and a tea cup; pull a bag of Earl Grey out of the tin and place it in the teacup; put two cookies from the jar on the other saucer; support himself on the counter while waiting for the water to boil; support himself on the counter while waiting for the tea to steep; stare into the teacup and watch the swirls of dark, tea-tainted water permeate the clear until the entire volume turned to a rich brown.

You may wonder why he just stood there rather than distract himself with something else while the water boiled and tea steeped. Why didn’t he hire a housekeeper, preferring to clean the seven bedrooms, seven and a half bathrooms, princess room, master bedroom, great room, dining room, study, sauna—which never gets used, nine fireplaces, parlor, living room, two sets of stairs, hallways, and kitchen by himself? It gave him something to do on the weekends and hours from 4:30 to 9:00 PM. That isn’t to say the professor didn’t read, but nothing modern inspired him, leaving plenty of hours to sit and listen to the clock.

It didn’t used to be that way. When he and his wife moved into the house with their two children soon after he got his teaching job, he pictured seeing his kids and grandkids enliven the rooms through the years. After one too many of his tirades, however, his pregnant wife took their two children and left. Because he was not one to give in or admit fault, they didn’t even speak again for eleven years following their divorce. Any efforts he made to connect with his grown children after his wife passed away lead to one misunderstanding after another and far too many arguments, driving further wedges between them.

Now he had plenty of time to sit in his chair in the living room by the floor lamp, and stare into his tea with only the clock and his tears of regret to keep him company.