The bell had already rung. The teacher was droning on about Shakespearean sonnets, her voice a low hum against the squeak of markers and the shuffle of papers.

Most of the class was in a post-lunch slump. Heads on desks. Phones hidden under notebooks. The late autumn sun cut a weak, dusty stripe across the linoleum floor, stopping just short of the back row.

Your seat was in the third row from the front, aisle. You’d been here since the bell, unpacking your things, trying to focus on the board.

The door at the back of the classroom clicked open. Not a slam. Not a creak. A precise, soft click.

No one else turned. No one ever did.

Heavy, quiet footsteps moved across the back of the room. A chair scraped softly, then went silent.