It's pronounced I-oh-lee. I don't know what's more disconcerting: the fact that my name is a certain color or that I was named after the girl who eventually lead to Hercules' death. Gotta love you, mom.

I eyed the ticking clock as it neared our dismissal time from the classics lecture, slightly irritated that several students were already making a ruckus while conspicuously packing up. I glanced down at my neat handwriting for the heading on the first page of my college-ruled paper, wondering when Professor Min Yoongi would announce what to do with the second draft of our research paper since there were less than ten minutes left before two hundred people would storm out of the spacious lecture hall of Yonsei University.

I actually had fun researching for the prompt, which was rare because he allowed us to select whichever god or goddess we were interested in to write about. I smiled as I silently recalled all the new facts I had uncovered about Clio, one of the highly esteemed nine muses of Greek mythology. Despite not being one of those official goddesses on Olympus, she was still responsible for history and, oddly enough, the guitar, but it was her historical domain that drew me in like a butterfly to ambrosia.

I had an affinity for anything antique and vintage, so I naturally decided to major in history itself. There was just something about typewriters, quill pens, parchment paper, and gowns reminiscent of European eighteenth century societies that warmed me up in this detached, technological-driven era.

I was also contemplating on picking up a minor in Greek literature since I was pretty much obsessed with the subject ever since I was a child. Even my name paid tribute to the Greek culture since ‘iole’ also meant purple, which was one of mother's favorite colors. I guess you could say that I inherited my love for everything Greek from her.

My heart slightly panged with the memory of my mother again. My mind flashed back to younger times when the world still seemed so daunting but the comfort of her arms and soothing voice were all I needed. I would squirm in her lap like a puppy trying to find the right spot to lay down in as she settled me against her bosom with a well-worn book in her hands.

"Ready, darling?" Her chocolate brown orbs twinkled in the iridescent light peeking through the windows on those lazy cloudy days.

"Yes, Mommy!" I eagerly chanted.

She would slowly lean backward, allowing our combined weight to gently rock the wooden chair to and fro as she chose to read the perilous journey of Perseus that time.

Although I'd heard this story many times before, I never grew tired of the exhilirating sensation that rushed through my toddler body whenever Perseus battled Medusa from the reflection in his shield. Sometimes, if I was impatient to get to the details, I would blurt them out in an attempt to move the plot along.

Mom would never get mad though. Instead, she'd chuckle and acknowledge my outbursts before continuing on as normal.

However, this was one of those times when I wanted to lay content in the circumference of her arms and be lulled to a sense of peace as I listened to her soft voice rise in crescendo and drop in baritone as she assumed a different tone for each character. I even made sure to stick my thumb in my mouth to prevent myself from shouting out more "spoilers" for us.

Eventually, I ended up asleep on her chest, snuggling in closer to savor her warmth. The scent of clean laundry detergent filled my nostrils as I deeply inhaled and exhaled in satisfaction.

If I only knew that that was the last time that I would get to share that intimate moment with her. I should've recognized the signs earlier.

Less storytelling times.

How her chest constantly heaved laboriously whenever she tried to speak.

The specks of blood that never seemed to completely wash off from the towels.

"Mommy, where did all your hair go?" I naively asked.