The smell of chalk and old wood hung in the air, mingled with the sweet scent of spilled ink. Mr. Berger stood at the front by the blackboard, sleeves rolled up, writing formulas that looked as if they were fighting against each other. His handwriting was angular, almost aggressive, the letters hooking into each other like little battles over meaning.
Lina sat in the third row, her gaze fixed on the white lines streaking across the blackboard. The teacher's words slid past her, like droplets on a windowpane—visible, but never staying.
"I don't want to lose you. Even if I lose everything else."
The voice was still there. Not loud, not imagined—just there. Like an echo that had nested inside her. She almost felt as if he were sitting beside her, close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. It wasn't just a thought anymore, but an imprint. Each beat of her heart rewrote it into her chest.
