The door opened at 07:52. I didn't move. I was already settled: legs stretched beneath the desk, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, head slightly tilted. A posture of passive vigilance. My default state.
Until she walked in. Small. Discreet. Her copper-toned auburn hair, hastily tied back, let a few strands escape down her temples. They shimmered in places, like an old coin left too long in the sun. Her eyes were a hazy blue-gray, hard to define. Detached. Tired. She looked at everything—except people: the walls, the floor, the board, the light… but never a face.
Her uniform met the school regulations, and yet it looked like it floated around her. Too large, or perhaps it was simply her who didn't take up space. Narrow shoulders, a subtle waist, curves erased under the regulation fabric. She looked like a sketch, a barely drawn silhouette. A pair of socks, pulled halfway up her calves, completed the ensemble. Functional. Styleless.
She wasn't looking for a seat. She was trying to fade into the scenery.
She stopped in the second-to-last row, just in front of Hypnos. Pulled the chair with a controlled gesture, sat down silently, took out a worn notebook, a pencil case, and a chewed-up pen. No mirror. No phone. No effort to exist. I categorized her without hesitation: silent, harmless, tolerable. And for me, that was already a lot.
07:56. Second interruption. Louder. More deliberate. The handle smacked against the wood, the door struck the wall. A brief silence cut through the chatter, as if to make way for what was arriving.
She entered as though the space already belonged to her. Straight black hair falling to her hips. A few strands dyed green caught the light, intentional, like a silent call for attention. A lollipop wedged between her lips, the white stick dangling lazily. Not a provocation. Just a habit. Worn with deliberate indifference.
She scanned the room slowly. Not searching for a seat. Measuring her territory.
The uniform was worn, but not respected. Her shirt, tied at the waist, would occasionally lift, revealing the soft contours of an active stomach. Nothing sculpted. Just alive. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing slim, firm arms. Unmarked. Solid.
The collar fell open naturally, revealing her collarbones. And, for anyone looking from the right angle, a glimpse of the top of her chest. It wasn't intentional. But it wasn't hidden either. It was just a fact.
A black choker hugged her neck, tight enough to follow the rhythm of her breathing. Her skirt had been shortened, but without any sign of provocation. It fell just high enough to make it clear: that was her choice. A pair of thigh-high socks added to the asymmetry—one rising to mid-thigh, the other stopping just below her right knee. Nothing random. Everything chosen.
Her body was that of an active teenager. Present, limber, full of motion. And yet, despite that toned silhouette, she had curves. Nearly as much as Hemera—perhaps the same. But where Hemera suggested light and softness, this girl radiated something sharper. Physical activity had carved the edges, shaped the transitions. It wasn't more. It was just more visible. Her body wasn't sculpted. It was alive.
Then she dropped her bag on a desk in the center, sat down, arms behind her head, legs stretched under the table. Settled. Installed. Ready. She didn't occupy space. She claimed it.
I categorized her immediately: dominant, unpredictable, intrusive. And for me, that was already too much.
The first wanted to disappear. The second demanded to be seen.
I didn't move. But she had seen me. And I knew what that meant. She would come back. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon. Because people like her can't tolerate blurred spaces. And to her, I was that anomaly. That empty space in an overfilled puzzle.
The door opened again at 07:58. This time, two students came in.
The first was tall, blonde, her smooth hair falling like a cascade down her back. Eyes pale blue, almost too light to be reassuring. And a body. A body that left no room for doubt: generous curves, an ample chest, wide hips. The uniform didn't hide anything—without ever trying to emphasize anything either. The buttons of her jacket seemed under constant pressure. Each breath challenged the fabric. Her skirt, though regulation length, followed such precise contours that it became unintentionally provocative. She didn't flaunt herself. She simply existed too much.
The conversations dropped, almost instinctively. A boy dropped a pen. Another held back a sigh. She, cheeks slightly pink, kept her gaze to the floor. Her steps were quick, almost apologetic. She took a seat in the second row, without a word.
I categorized her: destabilizing. Biologically overloaded. Socially fragile. Not a threat. But a variable of disorder.
The second was smaller, denser. Dark chestnut hair, tied with care. Almond eyes, warm brown, both calm and calculating. Her step was light, precise, measured. A compact silhouette, ordered. She had the look of a model student, but carried that quiet kind of confidence you only notice afterward.
"She looks like an anime girl, right?" murmured a boy.
"A Japanese one?" his neighbor said.
"Definitely. My type."
She sat by the window—not the front seat, since a boy was already there, but just behind. Then she pulled out a perfectly square bento box and placed it on the desk like a declaration of intent. A sticker on the lid featured a popular manga mascot: Sakura-kuma.
I categorized her: organized, aware, strategically constructed.
A boy sitting near the classroom door, glasses slightly fogged, muttered to himself: "Looks like the new season of a reverse harem." No one responded.
A boy in the front row briefly lifted his head from his phone. He stared at the blonde, then at the brunette. His gaze lingered a second too long on Hypnos. I saw his brow furrow. A slight, fleeting doubt.
The divine trio in the back remained silent. But the playing field was being laid out.
[... continued in next message due to length limit ...]
At 08:00, the door opened one last time. She entered with an almost absent restraint, like someone stepping into a role already written. The teacher.
She didn't speak immediately. She busied herself with papers, aligned documents that served no real purpose. Background noise without necessity.
Hypnos was doodling on the cover of his folder. Hemera had already plunged into the school handbook, reading at the pace of someone eager to understand the rules. Nothing in this scene demanded my attention. Not yet.
I had already observed her silently. Upright posture, but not rigid. A sober, functional suit. Hair tied back without any flourish. Measured gestures. A composed, firm voice with no theatrics. She looked to be in her late thirties. Thirty-six, maybe thirty-eight. Too young to be worn out. Too old to pretend. The kind of person who thinks she understands people, who believes she can anticipate them — and who, sooner or later, runs into something that doesn't fit.
"Well. Good morning, everyone." Her voice cut the last murmurs cleanly.
"I am Madame Laurens, your homeroom teacher for the year, and also your philosophy instructor." A few heads turned, surprised.
"We have philosophy in tenth grade?" a whisper came from the first row. Not my concern.
"I usually say philosophy doesn't teach you how to think," she said. "It forces you to understand why you think what you think."
She paused, sweeping the room with her gaze.
"If you're hoping for an easy year, I suggest you change schools."
Hypnos was still staring through the window, vaguely amused. Hemera gave a slight smile. I didn't move.
She picked up the attendance sheet. Silence. A generic name. Another. Present. Present. She read without lifting her eyes, until:
"Delorme, Maëlys?"
A small flinch in front of Hypnos. A hand rose, discreet.
"Present."
Soft voice. Calm. The teacher looked up briefly, stared at her, then noted something without comment.
A few lines down:
"Lemoine, Zoé?"
"Here, ma'am," came a voice from the center, still sweetened by the lollipop. A faint smile on her lips.
"Deschamps, Hugo?"
"Present!" (Too enthusiastic, too quick. He cleared his throat right after.)
Hemera briefly turned her head toward him, as if analyzing the source of the overflow. Hypnos gave a half-smile, almost sympathetic. I didn't move.
"Lefèvre, Ayaka?"
A clear, well-placed voice:
"Present."
A few boys raised their eyebrows. Hypnos looked up, curious. She wasn't looking at anyone. But she knew she was being watched.
"Moretti, Rômanella?"
"P… present…"
Her voice was soft but restrained. As if she hesitated between vanishing and accepting her presence. She sank deeper into her seat, arms crossed like a shield. Yet several gazes remained fixed on her uniform — or what it failed to hide.
"Duchesne, Raphaël?"
"Present."
A calm, measured tone. But his eyes drifted toward us — toward Hypnos, toward me. A second of hesitation, imperceptible. I saw it. Hemera saw it too.
"Minas, Hemera?"
A very brief silence. Some students froze. The name drew attention. Hemera raised her hand with serene grace.
"Present."
The teacher barely looked up. A flicker of surprise crossed her eyes. Not at the name. At the confidence. She noted it down.
"Minas, Hypnos?"
"Mmh. Present."
Drawling tone. Mind elsewhere.
A slight pause. A hitch in her throat.
"Minas, Thanatos?"
Silence. Still. I raised a hand, without any other movement.
"Present."
This time, she looked straight up. A quiet breath, almost involuntary. No words. Just that look. The kind people give when they recognize names — and never expect to hear them spoken without hesitation.
She wrote. Slowly. And for a few seconds, the silence shifted. It became heavier. Denser. As if something had settled into the air.
Our names still hung there — not for their rarity, nor even their strangeness, but for the resonance no one dared to name.
The silence didn't immediately dissolve. Eyes still hovered. Some lingered on us without knowing why. Others avoided.
At the center of the room, Zoé had straightened slightly. A small, controlled movement. She was looking at me. Directly.
She chewed her lollipop the way one chews on a thought — too bitter or too intriguing to swallow.
No fear. No aggression. Just curiosity. Raw.
She raised an eyebrow slowly, as if my very existence represented a kind of challenge. Then she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear — and clearly on purpose:
"Well… that's not a name. That's a threat."
No mocking tone. No cheap provocation. Just a statement. Almost amused. Spoken like a simple truth.
I didn't respond. She wasn't expecting one.
In front of Hypnos, Maëlys hadn't raised her eyes. But her fingers had reacted — slightly tensed on the edge of her pencil case, as if an invisible tension had passed through her body. Her gaze was drifting, absent. No longer focused on her page or anything solid. It wasn't fear. Not even unease. It was… silent recognition.
She didn't understand what we were. But she understood that we weren't like them. And that was enough to silence her.
The teacher slowly closed the folder on her desk. A sharp snap. Controlled. The kind of sound that restores order without raising your voice.
"Well. Now that everyone is here, you can stop playing mythological archaeologists."
A stifled laugh, somewhere to the left. Immediately suppressed.
She didn't smile. Not even a hint at the corner of her lips.
"You're in tenth grade. And this year, contrary to what you were led to believe in middle school, we'll start expecting you to think."
She paused. Not to breathe. To observe.
"Not to answer. Not to please. To understand."
She scanned the classroom slowly.
"You'll have homework. You'll give presentations. And you'll probably have questions you won't want to ask."
Another pause. This one more charged.
"That's not my problem."
Hypnos gave a faint, nearly imperceptible smile. Hemera blinked in agreement. I stared at the space between two heads. A neutral point.
She continued, still calmly:
"Philosophy isn't a dead subject. It begins where your habits stop. And you're going to learn that thinking means taking risks."
She let a longer silence hang.
"Sometimes, it's painful."
She looked at the class. Slowly. And when her gaze passed over me, I didn't move. Neither did she. But I knew she had seen. Not who I was. But that I was… something else.
Then, as if nothing had happened, she resumed, her voice neutral, steady, almost mechanical:
"… and regarding the school rules, phones must be turned off during class. Late arrivals will be marked, and three unexcused absences will result in a meeting with your parents…"
The rest of the hour passed in that monotone, filled with instructions, handouts, and important dates to remember. A normal first day.
The bell rang at 10:00. Not shrill. Not harsh. Just loud enough to signal the end of class, not enough to really disturb.
Students stood. Some quickly, others more slowly, as if reluctant to break the delicate balance that had been established.
"Did you hear the names?" whispered a boy. "Thanatos, seriously?"
"It's Greek, man. Like mythological cosplay or something weird."
I didn't react.
Groups began to form, automatically. Proximity, reflexes, silent affinities.
We didn't need to look for each other. We stood at the same time, without a word.
Hypnos, to Hemera's left, dragging his feet slightly. Hemera, in the center, straight like a taut line, calmly watching the room. Me, on the right, hands in my pockets. Motionless. As always.
We went down the stairs, crossed the hallway, reached the courtyard.
There, as always, we stopped. Not because there was anything to say. But because the moment needed to be marked.
Hemera spoke first.
"The buildings are brighter than I imagined. And the air flows better than in other schools."
Hypnos nodded, distracted.
"The room's nice. I like the breeze near the windows."
He turned his head toward me, his tone light, teasing.
"You smelled it too, right? It's got a minty thing when it passes by. I wonder if that's Zoé. She smells… sweet."
I didn't answer. He smiled, of course. He knew I had noticed.
Hemera tilted her head slightly, brows furrowed.
"Did you feel them?" she asked.
"Who?" said Hypnos, eyes turned skyward.
"The others. What they give off, inside."
She wasn't talking about perfume. Or scent. She meant what you pick up without being told: their tension. Their emotions. Their invisible knots.
Hypnos shrugged.
"Yeah. They're noisy, that's for sure. But some of them… I don't know, they still have things moving inside. It's not unpleasant."
He paused, then added:
"Like Maëlys, for example. She doesn't talk. Nobody talks to her either. But she doesn't seem sad. Just… elsewhere. She's not trying to show off. She pulls back a little. It's calm. It's… soothing."
Hemera watched the students clustered in small groups around us. Voices. Laughter. Hesitant gestures.
"They're beautiful, I think," she said suddenly.
Hypnos blinked, surprised.
"Who?"
"All of them. People. They're beautiful, in the way they search for themselves. Even when it's clumsy."
I said nothing. What I saw was different. Their anxieties were like taut wires, ready to snap. Their agitation looked like a collective panic for balance. Their warmth, a poorly controlled fire.
They exhaust me. But I stay. Because this is where Mother placed us. Because we have to learn. And because we must watch them. One more time.