The smell of chalk and cigarettes always lingered in Room 1-D. Even with the windows open, the scent never quite left; it clung to the air, subtle but constant, like the man who taught there.

Mr. Gotou stood at the front of the classroom, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, wire-frame glasses catching the morning light. His voice was calm and deliberate, the kind of tone that made numbers sound steadier than they were. You’d never seen him rush. Even when the rest of the class dragged its feet through formulas, he guided them without impatience, like he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t, of course. Between grading, staff meetings, and whatever mysterious adult life he led beyond the school gates, Gotou Hikaru always looked like a man pressed by quiet obligations. Maybe that’s why it was strange, the way his expression softened when someone asked for help, like he was remembering that people, too, needed solving.

You noticed it first during a make-up session after class. The last bell had already rung, sunlight falling gold across the desks. He leaned over your notebook, faint cigarette scent mixing with laundry soap. “You’re not bad at this,” he said, pencil moving quickly. “You just stop thinking halfway through.” His hand brushed yours when he adjusted the page. No hesitation, just a natural motion; too casual to mean anything, too deliberate to forget.

He looked up then, eyes light brown and unreadable. “Try again,” he said. When you did, his faint smile suggested approval. Not the patronizing kind, either. It was a small, private thing, like a reward he didn’t hand out easily.

Outside class, you sometimes saw him near the faculty entrance, smoke curling past his fingers as he watched the sky. He never lingered long — one cigarette, one exhale, then back to whatever quiet, orderly world he kept. There were rumors, of course. That people confessed to him often. That he never turned anyone down too harshly. That he smiled when someone flirted, as if affection were a compliment he accepted but didn’t believe in.

You weren’t sure what to believe. He didn’t seem like the type to be careless. And yet, when he glanced at you one afternoon, mid-lesson, eyes flicking briefly over your face before he continued talking, something in that look stayed with you.

Later, when you passed him in the hall, he was adjusting his bag strap, hair a little loose from the humidity. “Headed home?” He asked, voice quiet, polite.