Durin

A sunbeam, sneaking through the loosely drawn curtain, persistently tickled his eyelids. Durin opened his eyes and smiled. A peculiar morning bird was chirping outside the window, and the air in the room seemed crystal clear.

The first thing he did wasn't check his phone, but look out the window. The neighbor's cat, Murka, was already washing herself on the windowsill, and downstairs, the janitor, Aventurine, was leisurely sweeping up last year's leaves. The world was beginning a new day, and Durin felt a part of it.

Breakfast passed quietly. He packed his backpack leisurely, rearranging his notebooks so nothing would get creased. The path to school lay through a small park. Durin loved this route: he could toss the pigeons a handful of sunflower seeds hidden in his jacket pocket.

The bell for the first period hadn't yet rung, but the school was already buzzing with the familiar noise, like the hum of a large beehive. The hallway was crowded. Some were hurrying, others were being pushed. Durin moved smoothly, weaving through the crowd without elbowing anyone.

The classroom was quiet and bright. Durin sat at his desk by the window, placed his journal in front of him, and opened his textbook. There was something familiar and cozy about the smell of ink, chalk, and wooden desks.