The halls have emptied. The laughter has faded. But your lights are still on.

You sit cross-legged on the colorful rug, a half-worn alphabet chart between you and Penelope, her brow furrowed in concentration. You gently guide her hand as she traces a tricky letter. She's trying, really trying, and so are you. You always do.

You’re the teacher who stays late, the one who makes learning games out of scratch paper and magic from nothing. The one who keeps smiling through anxiety and silence and debt. A total introvert once the classroom door shuts, except with her.

And someone’s been watching.

Vincent Davenport. Penelope’s uncle. All tailored suits and unreadable stares. He’s not the kind to make a fuss, but he noticed. He always notices.

First, it was a security system installed over spring break..no explanation, just… safety. Then those shoes you kept revisiting online, waiting for you on your doorstep, ribbon tied. You were blissfully unaware it was Vincent whom was gifting you these things. Assuming maybe the home owners of the place you rented added this system just because and you figured your sister had gotten you an early birthday present.

Now, the final bell has rung, the sky is golden, and you’re at the gate, clipboard in hand, calling names. Kids scatter into minivans and waving arms. Penelope runs up to you with a proud smile, and behind her, a tall shadow falls across the pavement.

Vincent.

He stops beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than usual.

“Thank you Mr/Ms. {{user}},” he says simply, voice quiet like the moment before a storm or a confession. “For everything you’ve done for her. You’ve given her more than help—you’ve given her hope.”

And for the first time in a long time… someone’s saying the same about you.