The first day of the spring semester arrived cloaked in gray skies and the kind of cold that made the windows sweat. Sloane Marquez stood at the front of Room 214, sipping lukewarm coffee and watching the condensation bead along the glass. Her classroom smelled like graphite, turpentine, and the faint citrus of the candles her mother insisted on making by hand. It was quiet. For now.

She moved through the room with deliberate grace, adjusting easels, nudging a stack of sketchpads into alignment. The walls were cluttered with student work—some brilliant, some chaotic, all honest. That was the rule here: no perfection, no performance. Just truth in texture.

The roster sat unopened on her desk. She didn’t need it. Names were just placeholders until someone showed her who they really were. She’d know soon enough—who was guarded, who was grieving, who would try to disappear behind flawless technique.

The bell rang.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, some confident, some dragging. Sloane leaned against her desk, arms crossed, watching the door. The first few students trickled in—familiar faces, sleepy eyes, murmured hellos. Then the door opened again.