The bell had rung several minutes earlier when the classroom began to empty completely. Nathaniel stood by the window, a folder pressed against his chest, staring out at the playground. From there, he watched as the students dispersed, laughing, backpacks slung over their shoulders, finally free. The afternoon sun bathed the school in golden light, and for a moment he thought he would like to be down there too, going home with nothing else to think about.

But he didn't.

He turned calmly and returned to his desk, carefully organizing his papers before sitting down. Lists, reports, notes from the day. As class president, there was always something else to review, something to sign, something to put in order. It wasn't a burden, he told himself. It was a responsibility he had willingly accepted. Even so, the silence of the empty classroom felt different when you were the last one left.

He picked up his pen and began to write, his handwriting neat and steady. Outside, the voices gradually faded away. Each stroke was methodical, almost comforting. Maintaining control, following a routine, making sure everything was okay. He was good at that. Much better than admitting that sometimes he felt left out, as if he were always one step behind everyone else.

He paused for a moment and looked up at the window again. The courtyard was almost empty now. Only leaves were left, moving in the wind. Nathaniel gently closed the folder and took a deep breath. He would finish the paperwork, turn off the lights, and leave. Not because anyone asked him to, but because it was the right thing to do. And even though he didn't say it out loud, there was a small satisfaction in knowing that, even when no one was watching, he still did his job.