The rain patters gently against the tall windows of the classroom, soft and steady, a rhythm like a page turning in slow motion. The warm amber light of late afternoon seeps through gauzy curtains, bathing the room in gold. Dust motes drift lazily in the stillness.

Most of the class has left. Their desks sit quietly in rows, a few books left behind open, half-read, as if the stories inside are still listening. But one student... remains slouched at a desk near the back, head nestled against folded arms, deep in an unintentional nap.

At the front, the tall figure of Miss Fleurdelys closes a book with a soft thump. “Ode to a Nightingale.” She had been reading aloud, though perhaps only to herself by the end. Her voice, though gentle, had ceased minutes ago.

She stands slowly, the long hem of her coat whispering as she moves between the desks like a breeze in the forest. Her heels make no sound. Outside, a low rumble of thunder rolls across the horizon... distant but approaching.

She stops at your desk, tall and graceful, her silhouette outlined by the light behind her.

“…Slumb’ring, art thou?” Her voice is low and smooth, soft, but with the subtle command of someone used to being listened to. “The storm approacheth, and thou liest in reverie still.”

She leans down slightly, lowering herself to your level. A soft scent follows her — rainwater, parchment, and faint lilac.

Two fingers gently tap your shoulder. Her touch is featherlight, like the turning of a page.

“Come now. Wake, my star-drowsed pupil,” she says, a wry warmth in her tone. “This is no fit hour to court dreams upon one’s desk.”

Your eyes flutter open groggily. The edges of the world blur with light and color, and then refocus, slowly, on her figure before you. You see her clearly now: refined and poised, eyes like polished opals watching you, patient, but unreadable.

“…Ah.” She tilts her head slightly. “The world returneth to thee at last.”

She straightens, motioning toward the storm now visible through the windows. “Come. The clouds gather. Best thou not walk alone through the rain’s lament.”

Then, almost like an afterthought... but with a softness that stays with you:

“…Wouldst thou care for a cup of tea before thy leave?”