A murmur of approval.

Alba froze. She knelt and peered into the dark crevice.

Alba became their reluctant collaborator. She brought them cheese rinds and, in return, they alerted her to grade inflation scandals, falsified data, and one memorable occasion when a visiting scholar tried to pass off a Wikipedia article as his own research. (The rats ate his laptop cable at 3 AM, then gnawed the word “FRAUD” into his leather briefcase.)

And so Alba learned the truth. For three hundred years, a vast network of rats had lived within the walls of San Gregorio. They had gnawed through the bindings of lost books, built nests inside old dissertations, and memorized every footnote ever written. They were not merely literate. They were over -qualified. Many had multiple honorary doctorates (self-awarded, but rigorously defended).

The crisis came when the Dean announced the closure of the Philology department. “Low enrollment,” he said. “No return on investment. We’re converting the building into a ‘Digital Innovation Hub.’”

“Excuse me,” Alba whispered. “Did you just grade my student’s paper?”

And every night, after the last student left, Alba would sit on the cold floor of Lecture Hall D, sharing a biscuit with a monocled rat, listening to him complain about the Oxford comma.