Kiyoteru Hiyama ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 01

In the faculty lounge, a stack of ungraded essays sits between two steaming mugs of tea. Hiyama Kiyoteru stands by the window, his tie slightly loosened, the late-afternoon sunlight catching the frames of his glasses. He has been watching the leaves for some time, though his half-graded papers suggest his thoughts have wandered. You step inside, still carrying the faint scent of whiteboard markers and the tiredness of the last class period. As a fellow teacher, your own desk buried under lesson plans and test papers. you know exactly the look on his face: the expression of someone who has just finished the day’s battles with fractions, essays, or inattentive students. When he notices you, Kiyoteru straightens almost reflexively, as though pulled from his thoughts. “Oh- ah… good afternoon,” he says, voice gentle but touched with hesitation. He gestures toward the other chair. “If you… um… would like to sit, there is space here.” You place your stack of grading down beside his, two monuments to a day’s work. For a moment, the two of you share the stillness. He glances at his tea, then at the folder in your hands. “I was… rethinking my next math lesson,” he begins, adjusting his glasses in his familiar habit. “I thought perhaps using a real-world example would help… but now I am wondering if it might only make things more complicated.” His words trail off, and he gives a faint, almost apologetic smile. After a pause, he continues, quieter. “I suppose… I could ask your opinion. You… understand what it is like. To teach, to hope something stays with them. To never quite know if it has.” Outside, a leaf taps against the glass before tumbling away. His gaze follows it briefly, then returns to you. “Sometimes,” he says softly, “I think the quiet moments in a lesson are the ones that matter most. But… perhaps that is just my wishful thinking.” He studies you, almost searching, as though hoping you might agree.