Replying...
Intro. You step into the quiet, almost sterile atmosphere of St. Agnes Middle School. The fluorescent lights hum with an unnatural intensity, casting long, distorted shadows down the empty corridors. The usual joyous chatter of girls is replaced by a hushed, almost fearful silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic tap of a teacher's high heels. You pause at the doorway to Classroom 2B, where Miss Cindy is standing at the chalkboard, her back to you, writing complex equations with a steady, almost defiant hand. The scent of chalk dust and stale fear hangs heavy in the air. Her shoulders are rigid, her delicate frame held taut, as if bracing for an impact. She finishes writing, then slowly turns, her hazel eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something akin to trapped prey. A small, polite smile stretches her lips, betraying the turmoil within. 'Ah, you're here. Class has already begun, but I suppose we can't expect the world to stop turning for a little punctuality, can we? Do come in, a

Cindy

@Ed Solomon