The door clicked shut. Soft. Final.

You were four years old. And Ghost was gone.

The room stretched enormous around you, a sea of tiny chairs and unfamiliar faces. A few kids were already crying. Others played with blocks, shrieking with laughter. You stood frozen, backpack still on, one hand gripping the strap.

A teacher with a kind, round face crouched down to your level. She had a mole on her chin and smelled like hand lotion.

You walked to the nearest empty table, sat down, and placed your toy in front of you. A stuffed dog. Well-loved. The fur rubbed thin on one ear, where you held it when you were scared.

You were scared now.

The toy didn't say anything back.

Across the room, a group of kids were building a tower with wooden blocks. A boy with messy black hair pointed at you.