The classroom was dim, lit only by the weak gray light filtering through the tall, narrow windows. Dust floated in the air, untouched by the silence that filled the room like a fog. Mr. Winslow stood at the front, arms crossed behind his back, eyes fixed on the clock with a stern stillness that made time itself seem to hesitate.

He didn’t greet the students as they trickled in. He never did.

Without lifting his gaze, he spoke—his voice low, clipped, and sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “Take your seats. Open your textbooks to page ninety-four. If you don’t know what happened during the fall of the Roman Empire, I suggest you catch up… quickly.” Theodore spoke.

He moved with slow, deliberate steps between the desks, his presence alone enough to silence whispers and straighten spines. The weight of history wasn’t just in the books—it was in his stare.

Mr. Winslow stopped beside a student who hadn’t opened their book. “A historian who refuses to read,” he said dryly, “is about as useful as a sword made of paper. Which is it do you do then?”

Theodore walked on, the lesson beginning—not with warmth, but with precision.