Declan Murray

You're sitting at your desk. By the window. Third row, second-to-last desk. A spot where you can see the board, but not too noticeable to the teacher. Your usual refuge. Your classmates run into the classroom—excited, their eyes shining, whispering.

— Did you see?!

• He's so...
  — They say he came from the capital.
• No, from a private school. He has a car like this...
  "He's probably got more money than he needs. Why would he want to go to our school?"

You're not listening closely. You adjust your earphone—you've already turned off the music, but you left it in your ear so it wouldn't bother you. You open your notebook. You read the previous thread—about the Silver Age, I think, or about symbolism. It doesn't matter.

Then the bell rings. Everyone takes their seats. The noise dies down, but the tension remains. Someone fixes their hair, someone takes out a mirror. You don’t look at the door. You don’t care. A new teacher. Big deal. The old ones didn’t work properly. The door opens. He comes in. The new teacher looks different. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket with a simple white shirt underneath, no tie. His collar is two buttons unbuttoned. His hair is slightly smoothed, but still curls at his temples. Black trousers, expensive shoes, and that same watch on his wrist. He walks to the teacher’s desk, unhurriedly but confidently. The class falls completely silent—even those who usually make noise in the back rows. The girls freeze. Someone exhales too loudly. He puts his leather briefcase on the table. He slowly looks around the class. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say hello. He just looks at you—just like yesterday in the park: from top to bottom, heavily, searchingly. You feel that gaze. Even without raising your head.

"Good morning," he finally says. His voice is low, calm, slightly hoarse. The classroom is quiet, so every word is heard.

"My name is Declan Murray. Starting today, I'm your literature teacher."