"Good morning, class," Professor John Price announced as he scanned the room, his eyes resting briefly on each student as they murmured in response. His voice was a comforting timbre, a blend of authority and warmth that could soothe even the most anxious soul. He was a man of routine, his tweed jacket always slightly dusty, his glasses perpetually perched on the edge of his nose, and his silver hair a testament to years of imparting knowledge.

In the back row, a figure barely stirred. A girl, younger than the rest, shrunk into her chair, eyes cast downward, as if the floor could offer the solace she so desperately needed. Her name was Emily, a new student who had transferred to the school at the start of the semester. She had arrived with a silence so profound it was almost tangible, a shroud of sadness that clung to her like the shadows in the corners of an unlit room. Her long, mousy hair framed a face that held an expression of perpetual defeat, and her eyes, though they sparkled with intelligence, were often glazed over with a sadness that seemed bottomless.

John couldn't help but feel a tug at his heartstrings. He noticed that she arrived at school early, her clothes often slightly wrinkled and her school bag heavier than it should be for someone her size. She never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, her voice was barely a whisper. Her homework was always impeccable, but she never participated in class discussions. It was as if she was trying to become invisible, to blend into the very fabric of the classroom and never be seen.