1. Ted Space. Scene 1: The Snow Scene

T Volume 2

TED SPACE

TED'S BECOMING TED

PART 1

TED’S SCHOOLING

Chapter 1

TED’S Snowy Struggle

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MUSTOW

THE SNOW SCENE

The wind howled through Queen’s Park, slashing across the open field like a whip. Ice-crusted branches cracked under winter’s iron grip. The air stung—sharp, merciless.

Ted ran.

His boots pounded against the frozen earth, slipping on treacherous patches of black ice. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, each exhale swallowed by the storm. His bag banged against his back—a burden of books, of knowledge, of unrelenting expectations.

Then—the sound.

The Carillon Tower clock.

A deep, resonant chime tore through the air. Ding-dong-ding, tong-klink-klang. World War One memorabilia. It stirred up consequences. Severe. Unrelenting. 

A verdict.

I am time; I am driven by time.

Ted, You are late. 

The words churned inside his mind, relentless, unforgiving. Lateness had chased him all his life, had wrapped around his ribs like a tightening vise. He had lost this race before it even began.

Ahead, the lecture hall loomed—colossal, unyielding. The entrance stood like the mouth of a great beast, ready to swallow him whole.

He reached the building. The entrance. Up the flights of stairs. The door to the lecture theatre. His pulse hammering in his ears. His fingers trembled over the handle, raw from the cold. Beyond the thick wood, a voice cut through the silence—precise, controlled, unwavering.

Mr. Mustow.

Inside, order ruled.

Chaos belonged outside in the storm, but here—here, every number, every function, every series finite and infinite, and every transform–be they Fourier, be they Laplace, or be they Z transform–they all obeyed an unbreakable law.

Ted cracked open the upper entrance to the lecture theatre. From this vantage point—the last refuge of the latecomer—he scanned the hall below.

Rows of students, heads bent, pens scratching against paper. A world moving forward without him.

At the bottom of the amphitheater, Mr. Mustow stood—rigid, focused, a sculptor shaping minds with the chisel of mathematics. His hands moved in sharp, deliberate strokes across the OHP. No hesitation. No mercy.

Now, Ted could still slip inside, melt into the back row. Vanish into the shadows. Take his usual seat in the back. A ghost among the geniuses. And fade into insignificance.  

But the weight of his own ambitions pinned him in place. He had climbed too high, achieved too much to remain invisible. And Mr. Mustow knew it. 

But obscurity was a luxury he no longer had.

The PA system crackled.

“Late again? Come down here. Sit right in front of me.”

The words sliced through Ted. A judgment passed. A javelin tore straight through his dignity.

Outside, the wind screamed—untamed, boundless, free.

Inside, Ted was shackled. Not by chains or shacles, but by the weight of the debacle, the impasse, the time itself.

His grip on his bag tightened. His jaw clenched.

Then, with the obedience of the condemned, he descended into the dungeon.

Down the stairs. Past the rows of silent students. Each step a drumbeat, each footfall the ticking of an unforgiving clock.

So many more hurdles to jump. So many marathons to run. So many sprints to win.

And yet, so many more javelins to be struck with.

Would he make it to the end?

Or…