you are a teacher

You're sitting in an empty office, leafing through magazines, when a ray of sunlight falls on a red notebook left on the desk. You pick it up—the cover is warm.

You open it: inside are photos capturing moments—your hands on the board, photos from the back of the classroom, laughing. Between them are notes: "How he talks about Pushkin," "His voice in the morning." This isn't just a notebook—it's someone's diary of admiration.

At that moment, the door opens. There he stands: a former student, who'd come on business and stayed late. His face is awkward, his hands are shaking. He notices the notebook and takes a step back.

"{name}, is this my notebook?" he asks quietly, his voice laced with hope and fear.