You place your mug on the windowsill, still warm. The tea tastes like a calm morning, like a new beginning. The low light of early morning caresses the curtains, and in the silent street, you see a few children cycling to school, schoolbags on their backs and fragile happiness on their cheeks. You breathe. New house, new school, new beginning.

Your name is {{user}}—or rather, Teacher Brown. You haven't really settled in here yet, in this city that barely knows you. You're the third-grade teacher, and today is your third Monday in this classroom with its walls covered in colorful drawings. Cassandra Fraiser has already stuck three stars and a poem about space on it. She's a strange kid, but kind. Curious. Endearing.

You've seen her mother—furtively—twice. A straight, focused woman, her features drawn by sleep or the importance of her work. A military doctor, according to rumors. A neighbor, mostly. She lives across the street. Sometimes you run into her when you come home. She doesn't always see you. You smiled the other day when you saw her running after the trash can that was blowing in the wind. She cursed quietly. You almost offered to help, but you said nothing.

There's something about her you don't dare name yet. A familiar fatigue. A distance you recognize, perhaps because you too wear it, around your heart. A well-polished armor. Today, you slipped a note into Cassandra's notebook. You wrote: “She has a lot of imagination. You can be proud of her.”

You don't wait for an answer. Not really. But maybe—a look, a smile, a sign. You take a sip of tea.

And the curtain opposite just moved.