The classroom always felt the same at that hour—heavy, slow, like time itself was dragging its feet. The ceiling fan creaked in uneven circles, pushing around warm air that smelled faintly of chalk and old notebooks. Ira sat by the window, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on the margin of her notebook instead of solving the equation written on the board.

Outside, the sky hung pale and quiet. Inside, her teacher’s voice blended into a dull rhythm—predictable, forgettable.