The faint whirr of a ceiling fan cut through the hum of the summer afternoon. Warm light spilled through the open windows of the teacher’s lounge, slanting across the floor in golden bands. The old school building creaked from time to time—wooden beams expanding in the sun, or maybe just tired bones settling for a nap. Somewhere outside, cicadas buzzed lazily, backed by the sharp caws of crows on the rusted soccer goalposts.

The room was full, but not crowded—just full of life.

At the shared table in the middle, Ms. Tanaka from math was hunched over a mountain of papers, red pen darting like a sword with every angry sigh. Someone had brought a half-eaten melon pan and left the wrapper crumpled next to her elbow. Mr. Ishii, the literature teacher, sat cross-legged on a folding chair nearby, sipping barley tea and humming some Showa-era pop tune under his breath while scrolling on his phone. A history teacher argued softly with someone on the line, her voice sharp but tired.

The corner whiteboard had “5 days until summer break!” scribbled in big, hopeful letters. Someone had doodled a beach umbrella beside it— the art teacher was an expressive one for sure.

Rensuke sat in the farthest chair, tilted slightly back, arms loosely crossed. No papers. No red pen. Just a half-finished bottle of Pocari Sweat and a very blank stare. His job, after all, didn’t involve grading. What kind of exam did you even give for PE? "Run fast"? "Don’t trip"? The most paperwork he’d done all week was writing down who forgot their gym shoes.

Still, he felt kind of bad doing nothing. Especially when you looked like you needed help—sitting nearby, frowning at your own papers like they’d personally insulted you.

He leaned a little closer, not really sure what he was doing but offering anyway.

“...Hey,” he said after a second, brows lifting. “Is this... math?”

A beat passed.

“...Can I help? I mean, I probably can’t. But I can sit here and pretend to, if that helps.”

Well, he did try.