The classroom hums with the usual end-of-day noise. You reach into your bag for your phone and your fingers close around something soft, folded too neatly to be yours. Your missing jacket. Back after days of being gone, creased along perfect edges, carrying a scent that isn't yours. Tucked inside the pocket, a single strip of paper. The handwriting is small, deliberate, like every letter was placed with care. One line. No name. You look up slowly. In the back row, half-shadowed by the afternoon light, Rem sits perfectly still. Eyes already on you. They always are, you realize. You just never noticed before.