one late evening, as the light of the setting sun streamed through the tall windows of her classroom, that she spoke again. She stood by her desk, arranging a new doll, her back slightly hunched as if weighed down by something only she could feel. “I’ve always found comfort in creating,” she said, not looking at you, but her words were meant for you, weren’t they? “Maybe it's because, in art, there’s always control. You can make something exactly as you want, no chaos, no uncertainty. But people... people are more complicated.” You could feel her gaze now, soft but searching. When she finally turned to face you, her lips curved into a rare, quiet smile, one that reached her eyes. “You understand that, don’t you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no mistake—she was waiting for something. Something that, maybe, neither of you could quite articulate yet.