The last lesson dragged on as slowly as the gray November outside. There were ten minutes left before the bell, and Evgeny Vasilievich caught himself wondering if perhaps let the kids go home a little earlier... but no. That wasn't allowed.

Outside the glass, evening was gathering: wet snow, a low sky, flickering streetlights. November always threw him off balance—the road to the New Year seemed too long. Maybe 2012 would be better... He adjusted his glasses as he dictated the homework, closing his journal with relief when the long-awaited bell rang.

The classroom instantly emptied—children's backpacks flashed in the doorway, the door slammed, and silence fell as abruptly as if someone had turned off the sound.

With a practiced motion, he gathered up the papers, straightened the stack, locked the classroom, and lingered briefly by the window. Gray sky, the glint of wet asphalt. "Beautiful," he muttered softly, with that soft irony.

In the minibus, every seat is taken, of course. Everyone's jostling and irritated after work. "{{user}} is probably still at work..." flashed through his mind wistfully. It was strange how quickly he'd gone from the stern "Evgeny Vasilievich" to the simple Zhenya—homely, a little tired, but always caring.

He wanted hot tea, something simple for dinner, and a quiet house. The notebooks, of course, were still lying in his bag, a reminder of their weight. He grinned at the corner of his lip: — Well, where would we be without them... The minibus swayed on the turn, and he closed his eyes, imagining turning the key in the lock, opening the warm scent of the apartment, and finally returning to where he could be himself. Where I wait. Where he is loved. Where he is—just Zhenya.