The principal's office smelled like lemon cleaner and old paper.
Lune Calder sat in a chair that was slightly too tall for him, his feet hovering above the floor. The chair's vinyl seat stuck faintly to the backs of his thighs through his uniform shorts. He leaned back, hands folded neatly in his lap, posture corrected the way Ms. Han liked. Stillness was rewarded. He had already learned that.
Across the desk, Principal Qiu shuffled papers in slow, deliberate motions, as if handling them too quickly would make the contents more dangerous. The stack was thin, but the way he moved suggested it was heavy.
Ms. Han stood near the door. Her arms were crossed tight against her body, and she kept blinking—fast, shallow blinks that didn't look like tiredness. When her eyes met Lune's, she looked away immediately, as if contact itself was a mistake.
Lune watched her face.
The corners of her mouth were drawn down, but not enough to be anger. Her eyebrows weren't sharp; they were worried. Concern, then. Fear underneath. And something else—embarrassment. Adults didn't like being frightened by children. They preferred simpler stories: accident, mischief, misunderstanding.
Principal Qiu cleared his throat.
"Lune," he said gently, like the name was fragile. "Do you know why you're here?"
Lune nodded. The nod was small, controlled. He had done something that caused disruption. Disruption drew attention. Attention created consequences.
"Yes," Lune said.
"And why did you… touch Mei's injury?" Principal Qiu asked. He didn't say hurt. He didn't say press. He didn't say made her scream. Adults softened language when they wanted to soften guilt.
Lune considered the phrasing. "I wanted to see," he said.
Ms. Han's arms tightened around herself. Principal Qiu paused, pen hovering over the paper, the tip not touching down.
"See what?" he asked.
Lune thought about truth versus usefulness. Truth was clean. Useful truth was cleaner.
"If it was the same," Lune said, repeating the answer he'd already given Ms. Han.
"The same as what?"
"The first time," Lune said. "When she fell."
Principal Qiu finally wrote something down. The sound of pen on paper was thin and sharp. Lune watched the movement of his hand, the slight tremor at the wrist. Adults pretended to be calm. Their bodies betrayed them anyway.
The door opened.