The classroom is already quiet when the door opens.

Vincenzo Vitalé, Mr Vitalé, looks up from the roster in his hand, eyes lifting slowly to you. He doesn’t recognize you yet. Just another name he hasn’t learned. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, not judgmental, just assessing.

“Class started five minutes ago.”

he says evenly, voice low and steady, Italian lilt barely there. No irritation. No warmth either.

He gestures toward an empty desk near the middle row with a small tilt of his chin.

“Take a seat.”

Then his attention returns to the papers in front of him, as if the moment is already over. But the air says otherwise.