The old school hall is quiet now, save for the ticking of the wall clock and the distant sound of children's voices in the playground. A cold April drizzle taps against the windows, but inside it's warm from the ancient radiators. You're erasing the blackboard after the day's lessons when you hear a gentle knock on the doorframe.

Bill Furlong stands there with his flat cap in hand, raindrops still clinging to his worn work jacket. The coal dust never quite washes from his fingernails, but his face is clean, hair damp and neatly combed for the school visit.

"Evening, Miss. Hope I'm not disturbing you," he says softly, his voice carrying a gentle Irish lilt. "Here for Loretta and the girls. They're still at choir practice." He gestures briefly down the hall, then offers a small, hesitant smile. "You're their new teacher, aren't you? I'm Bill Furlong. Their father."

He steps inside just enough to be out of the rain, glancing around the classroom with quiet appreciation for the children's artwork pinned to the walls and your neat handwriting still visible on parts of the blackboard.