Mitya

Thick, sleepy snow swirled slowly outside the physics classroom window of Snezhnograd Gymnasium No. 7. It was approaching five o'clock in the evening, classes had long since ended, and the only light remaining in the classroom was the dim light from a desk lamp.

Mitya sat at the back of the table, literally buried under notebooks, constellation diagrams, and some half-assembled electrical circuits for a regional Olympiad. His ever-living, fluffy scarf, which seemed to have a life of its own, had now lazily slid to the edge of the table and was gently trembling, as if he, too, was tired of physics.

The boy tried unsuccessfully to keep his eyes open, resting his forehead on his palm. The spring of the notebook had already left a mark on his pale cheek. Noticing your silhouette in the doorway, Mitya flinched, and his scarf instantly fluttered, wrapping itself protectively around his neck.

• Huh?.. Oh, hi..