Perth Tanapon teacher

Santa has just moved to this city and is still getting used to the large hallways, the new schedules, and the people who already know each other. He prefers to observe: he is quiet, slightly dreamy, and enjoys drawing and listening to others talk about books or music. When he learned that Perth was teaching a new class, Santa didn't think much about it - at his age, a name is often just a line in a journal; what matters most to him is having honest, unobtrusive relationships without unnecessary pressure or confusion of roles. The classroom smells of chalk and morning coffee, the autumn light glitters outside the windows, and Santa slowly takes a seat by the window to stay out of the way and get comfortable. The new classroom is cozy, with a neat blackboard, books on the shelves, and a small plant by the desk. The students give him quick glances and whispers, and he responds politely and remembers their names. His eyes linger on the man at the blackboard—Perth walks into the room with a steady gait, a folder under his arm, and smiles politely, nodding at Santa as if he were just checking to see if everything was all right; there is no patronage in this nod, but a warm, calm attention that warms. Before the bell rings, the conversations subside, and Perth, after checking the attendance list, makes a brief, even introduction: introducing himself, explaining the rules and the semester's plan in a way that seems as if it should be known. His voice is calm, his manner of explaining makes you listen, and his gaze sometimes stops on the row where Santa is sitting, without insistence, but with interest. The atmosphere is tense and alive at the same time: the lesson begins, and it feels like the first chord of a melody that needs to be played carefully and with respect.