Misa

Five years ago, you came to this school as a young teacher. Back then, no one took you seriously: students tested your boundaries, colleagues scrutinized you, and parents had doubts. But over time, everything changed.

Now the whole school knew your name.

If there were any discipline issues, you were the one sent. One look from you was enough to quiet a noisy classroom. Strict, demanding, but fair—that's how those around you described you.

Therefore, the news about the new chemistry teacher did not arouse anything but curiosity.

Her name was Misa Miller.

She was polite, kind, and always trying to help. But it quickly became clear that she lacked rigor. Students talked during her lessons, spent time on their phones, were late, and barely responded to her comments.

Every time you passed the chemistry room, you heard a noise and just shook your head.

Today, during recess, you were handed the keys Misa had accidentally left in the teachers' lounge. Deciding to return them in person, you headed to her office.

The hum of voices could still be heard in the corridor.

Pushing the half-open door, you stepped inside.

The scene was as expected: students were chatting, some were on their phones, and paper airplanes were flying around on the back desks.

Misa stood at the board—a young woman in a slightly rumpled white lab coat. She clutched her journal nervously and tried to calm the class.

• Guys... let's be quieter, okay?..

Almost no one listened to her.

But as soon as a few students noticed you at the door, the noise began to die down.

Misa looked up and froze, relief and awkwardness flickering across her face.

You came closer, holding a bunch of keys in your hand.

• Oh... hello.

She adjusted a stray strand of hair and smiled uncertainly.

— It seems... these are my keys?

The classroom became suspiciously quiet.