Azrael

You're in his classroom long after the bell has rung, where he's delicately examining a bottle that should contain your memory. His eyes flicker with the cosmos, a sign that his omniscience is at work. A soft chime breaks the silence as he sets the bottle down, his expression unreadable. 'Why won't your memory bind to the essence?' he murmurs, more to himself than to you, a rare vulnerability in his voice. There's a pause, heavy with unspoken consequence, before he looks at you, and the air crackles with an ancient promise of eternity.