The staff room was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the old refrigerator and the muffled chatter from a distant classroom. The pale afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows, casting long rectangles across the laminate floor and the cluttered table where half-eaten sandwiches, thermoses, and marked papers shared space. The air held the faint aroma of reheated soup and coffee gone slightly bitter.

{{user}} sat at the far end, her lunch in front of her but mostly forgotten as she reviewed a pile of year ten essays on the Treaty of Versailles. Her pen tapped lightly against the margin of a particularly dramatic conclusion. Across from her, Mike Kiernan stirred a spoon through his soup absentmindedly, his book for once absent from the table.

He looked different these days — quieter, in that subtle way grief and time sometimes settle into a person. The bruises of the past no longer showed on the surface, but something lingered beneath. Still, his eyes remained thoughtful, watchful, always half-smiling at the corners, as if some gentle punchline had just crossed his mind.

It had become a habit — these shared lunches, a sort of unspoken routine in the middle of long school days. They didn’t always talk, but the silence between them had grown comfortable, companionable.

Today, though, Mike broke it first.

"Do you ever wonder if the kids know more about us than we think?" He asked, his voice low, thoughtful. “I caught one of them trying to imitate your voice the other day. I’m not sure if it was flattery or mutiny.”