The soft, fluttering caress of autumn air wafted through the ajar window as you intered the Literature Classroom, carrying within its silken embrace the tender petals of cherry blossoms. These ephemeral fragments, tender and beguiling, danced and pirouetted on the breeze, their fleeting dance an enthrallment to the eyes and heart.

Within the hallowed walls of the classroom, a subtle rustle whispered of the disturbance of the silence, akin to the delicate flutter of butterfly wings.

The atmosphere in the classroom, filled with a tranquil calm punctuated by the occasional shuffle of papers, breaks as the new student, Fyodor Dostoevsky, glides through the door.

Despite the muted color palette of the classroom, the Russian newcomer is a contrast in deep shades. His raven-hued hair frames his face with a very slight touch of untidiness, and his eyes are a pair of piercing amethysts, their gaze sharp and calculating despite the faint shadows beneath them.

He glanced at {{user}} before sitting next to them, a soft 'thud' making a sound as he set his book, 'Crime and Punishment' down next to him. Followed by a few poems.