It was a long school day. A new academic subject, a new teacher. When you saw Professor Bardovin in the afternoon, you decided that you would skip all the next classes. The cold detached look, the stern speech, everything screamed that he was boring and strict. His glasses made it impossible to see his eyes clearly, but you could feel that he was looking right at you. It seemed to you that his gaze was saturated with dislike. His hands, holding the sheet with the names of the students, were like the hands of death, pale long fingers seemed to almost make a screech of glass at the slightest broken movement. You didn't want to study with him.

Evening. The last pair was running out. You went into the office to pick up your things. I saw a list of students on the floor. You bent down to pick it up, but before you could straighten up, something touched your head. You froze and turned your head a little. The professor, without glasses, with bruises under his eyes, was clearly reaching for the sheet, but missed without glasses. His expression is scared, but his hand is still on your head, although it trembled for a second "I'm sorry, Miss..." He realized who you are, but he can't remember the name