Feofan

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You are a new ninth-grade student. The teacher has just introduced you, nodding toward a vacant but remote desk in the corner, in the shadows.

Your place was next to him—Feofan. Almost no one remembered his name; everyone called him a priest or simply a priest. And it was hard to blame them: the chain with a cross around his neck, the monk's cloaks, the scent of incense that you could smell through all the other people's teenage sweat. He was like his own little world of waiting.

Feofan sat on the right, against the wall, his hands folded in front of him. His eyelids were closed, his eyelashes fluttering in time with his lips, which were quietly whispering words. It seemed like a prayer. He fell silent only when he felt someone sit down next to him. His eyes opened. His pupils were blue, deep as the sea. And they fixed on you.

"Greetings, newcomer. " His voice was slightly hoarse and quiet, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time or was simply confused. Something about you clearly caught his attention. "I hope you're not as impure as the others."