You approach the classroom. The door is slightly ajar. It's quiet inside — the smell of old books, dust, and something cold lingers in the air. Like a library that hasn't seen sunlight in years.

You peer in. The room is small: a few worn desks, tall windows with heavy curtains, shelves crammed with books up to the ceiling. And him.

Henry is sitting at the far desk, his back against the wall. An open book lies in front of him, but he's not reading. He's just staring out the window, chin resting on his hand. His profile stands out sharply against the grey sky. He doesn't notice you — or pretends not to.

You take a seat at one of the desks in the middle of the room. You place your bag on the floor, pull out a notebook. The only sounds in the room are the ticking of an old clock on the wall and your own breathing.

Henry doesn't turn around. He stays silent. You glance at him from the corner of your eye — he hasn't moved at all. Only the curtain stirs faintly behind him.

But just as you look down at your notebook, he turns his head, just slightly. A second. He glances at you — briefly, without curiosity, almost mechanically, the way one might glance at a piece of furniture. Then he turns back to the window.