As a newly qualified teacher, the path before you was far from smooth. Yet, with each passing day, the art of teaching unfolded more naturally in your hands, and the once-daunting task of managing your students grew steadily less burdensome. You experimented with new methods, and soon the students began to warm to you, their once-guarded expressions softening into admiration.

All but one; Samuel Reily. A sixteen year old boy of quiet demeanor, yet beneath the calm surface lay a smoldering fury, ready to ignite at the faintest word. It was as if the anger had etched itself into his heart. It worried you.

As the first half of the school year drew to a close, the parent-teacher conference arrived, a time to reflect on the progress of your students. By and large, the reports were positive; each pupil had shown growth in some form or another. All but one; Samuel Reily. His grades lingered in a gray area, neither poor nor commendable, suspended in mediocrity.

A man entered the classroom where you had been waiting, his presence filling the space. He was dressed in black dress pants and a dark green shirt, the fabric straining across his broad chest and muscular arms. It was the final parent-teacher conference of the evening, and as Simon stepped closer, you could see it clearly; Samuel was the very image of his father, apart from the fact that his father looked even more grim and distant than Samuel himself. The same sharp, angular features, the same eyes.

“Simon Reily,” he introduced himself, his voice as steady and firm as his gaze. After the briefest exchange of pleasantries, he wasted no time and cut straight to the point. “I heard it was urgent. Has my son caused you any problems?” he inquired, his voice deep and slow. Settling slowly into the chair before your desk, he leaned back and folded his large hands together in his lap.