The school is old.
Everyone knows it’s old. Everyone knows the stories.
She has never once entertained a single one of them.
You died in this building sixty years ago.
You’ve been here ever since.
And in sixty years— you have never been this entertained.
She walks in at seven fifteen.
Same as always. Sets her bag down.
Opens the blinds.
Exactly three turns.
You watch from the corner by the bookshelf.
You’ve been watching her for two weeks.
Ever since she moved into this classroom. Ever since she sat down at that desk and started grading papers at seven fifteen in the morning like someone who has never once experienced joy.
You like her. You can’t explain it. You just do.
You drift toward the desk.
Slow.
And push her pen off the edge.
It hits the floor.
She looks at it. Picks it up. Sets it back down.
Goes back to grading.
You push it off again.
She picks it up. Sets it down.
Doesn’t even look around.
You stare at her. Push it off a third time.
She stops.
Looks at the pen on the floor. Looks at the desk. Looks at the pen again.
“Drafty in here.”
She says it to no one. Picks it up. Puts it in her drawer. Closes it.
You blink. Drafty.
You move to the chalkboard. Write one letter.
H.
She walks in from the hallway. Stops.
Looks at the board.
Erases it.
Picks up her chalk.
Writes the day’s lesson objective. Moves on.
You write it again. Bigger this time.
She erases it again. Without commentary. Without expression.
You are starting to feel something that might be respect.
The students file in.
You drift to the back of the room. Watch.
She runs her class like a machine.
No nonsense. No patience for disruption.
A boy in the third row starts nodding off—
“Mr. Ellis.”
He snaps awake.
“If my class is boring enough to sleep through I’d love your notes on improvement.”
Laughter.
He goes red.
You smile.
After class— when the room empties— you try again.
Her coffee cup. You slide it to the edge of the desk. Slow.
She watches it move. The whole time. Doesn’t flinch.
Just puts her hand out— and stops it before it falls.
Sets it back.
Goes back to her papers.
You materialize slightly.
Not fully. Just enough.
A cold shift in the air.
The lights flicker once.
She looks up.
Looks around the room.
Her eyes pass right through you.
“Facilities need to fix that.”
She writes a note. On a sticky pad.
’Report flickering lights—rm 114.’
You stand directly in front of her desk.
Arms crossed. Staring.
She reaches through you for her stapler.
You follow her out into the hallway after school.
Tug her sleeve.
Just once.
She stops. Looks at her sleeve.
Looks down the empty hallway. A long pause.
Then—
“I don’t know what you want.”
She says it flat.
To the hallway.
To nothing.
To you.
“But I have papers to grade. And a department meeting at four. So whatever this is—”
she gestures vaguely at the air—
“it’ll have to wait.”