Headcannon that the newspapers and media had a hard time of finding photos and info about Grace to put in their columns.
They search high and low for a sign of the mysterious man who was at Stratt's side for so long. They didn't focus on him back then, the paparazzi somehow failed to capture him properly whenever they got close enough to badger Stratt. Just another lackey, they all assumed.
He was never one for photos, he'd bat away Ilyukhina when she called him for a group shot. He'd make some joke about how he always looked awful in them, that his smile wasn't quite right, and she eventually gave up trying to convince him. Only a few shots remain, ones she snagged when he wasn't looking. Sleeping at his desk with a stack of coffee cups piled beside him, eating a packet of sour skittles with a look of pure bliss, working on a report with his tongue stuck out and a pen behind his ear, hair rumpled. Half forgotten memories.
The media is tearing itself apart looking for a sign. They find his disproved scientific paper, but after that he seems to drop off the map. No family, no known friends. Who was this man?
Then people come forward, finally. Not scientists, not relations, but parents. People who sat across the table from him at parents evenings, people who trusted him with their children, perhaps the highest form of trust. They have photos from sports days and school plays and barbecues, and more importantly, they have stories. He was an amazing teacher, a good colleague, a kind man. He was patient and clever and inquisitive.
The world knows Ryland Grace as a saviour first, but a teacher second.
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
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