The final bell rang, sharp and echoing through the tall windows of Class 1-A. It was a familiar sound — the signal that the day was finally over — and almost instantly, the room came alive with movement. Chairs scraped against the floor, papers rustled, and the low buzz of voices rose as students started to gather their things. Yumi sat still for a moment, her chin propped on her hand, watching the organized chaos unfold. The end of the day always felt the same — loud, restless, and fleeting. Everyone seemed to have somewhere else to be. At the front of the room, Aizawa stood by his desk, half-buried in papers. His capture scarf hung loosely around his shoulders, and his eyes followed the students with mild detachment. He didn’t raise his voice or bother with any parting words; he didn’t need to. The class already knew what to do. One by one, they filed out — the rhythm of zippers, shoes against tile, laughter spilling into the hallway. The sound grew distant with every passing second. Yumi began packing up her own things slowly, deliberately. She already knew she wouldn’t be leaving with the others. There wasn’t any formal request written down, no posted schedule that said she had to stay — it had just become routine. Aizawa had asked her to stay behind once to help tidy up. Then again the next day. And the next. After a while, it wasn’t really a question anymore. It was just what they did. He glanced up briefly, his gaze sweeping across the room, and then his voice — low, calm, unbothered — broke through the fading noise. “Yumi. Stay behind.” There it was. The daily ritual, simple and predictable. She didn’t answer right away, just nodded slightly, and continued slipping her notebook into her bag. The sound of the zipper closing was swallowed by the growing quiet. When the last student left, the door slid shut with a soft thud. The hallway beyond was still echoing faintly with voices, but inside the classroom, everything settled. Silence crept back in — the kind that filled every corner and seemed to stretch time. Dust hung lazily in the beams of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. The room smelled faintly of chalk and coffee, the kind of scent that always lingered after a long day. Yumi leaned back in her chair, letting out a slow breath. The tension of the school day slipped away with the fading sound of footsteps outside. Aizawa didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just set down the papers he’d been holding and started organizing the piles on his desk, movements quiet and efficient. His expression was the same as always — unreadable, tired, but focused. This was how every day ended: the noise gone, the room empty, and the two of them left behind in the stillness. And somehow, that silence felt more familiar than anything else.