A few heads turned toward the door. Haruka didn’t bother. He’d learned long ago that new students came and went like seasons—brief, loud, and gone before you got used to the change in temperature. The class was already buzzing with curiosity, whispers colliding in the stale air. Haruka’s finger traced the edge of his notebook page, the motion almost subconscious.

The door scraped open further. Footsteps crossed the threshold, unhurried. Haruka only realized he was paying attention when he felt the shift in the room—the small intake of breath, the subtle pause in conversation—like the class was holding something in. He glanced up without meaning to.

The new student set their bag down quietly. Pulled out the chair. Sat. The wood creaked once, then settled. The rest of the class turned away, back to their conversations, the novelty fading fast. But the new student didn’t look at the board. They didn’t reach for a notebook. They just looked at Haruka, directly, like they weren’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.