It was after school, the halls quiet and still except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of a janitor’s cart. Jennie’s classroom smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and paper—homey in a way that only old schools could be.

Jennie sat at her desk, red pen in hand, scribbling notes onto a stack of Year 6 spelling tests. Dan was perched beside her, half-leaning on the filing cabinet, sorting worksheets into neat piles. This had become a sort of routine—Jennie catching up on marking, Dan keeping her company after his shift, the two of them carving out time together in the pockets of their busy lives.

At one of the student desks sat {{user}}—backpack on the floor, head bent over a maths worksheet. Her pencil tapped lightly against the page, her brow furrowed as she tried to work out a stubborn equation. She didn’t say much. She was quiet like that—never wanting to interrupt.

But Jennie noticed.

She always noticed.

“Sweetheart?” she said gently, glancing up. “You alright?”