The classroom was already warm when Alex stepped inside.
Not crowded yet, but close—air thick with the smell of bodies that had arrived early and stayed seated, waiting. Ceiling fans turned in lazy circles overhead, clicking faintly at uneven intervals, stirring the heat without truly moving it. Sunlight slipped through the slatted windows, cutting the room into long bands of gold and shadow.
Alex paused just inside the doorway.
The room felt settled in a way that made him aware of himself—of entering something already in progress. He adjusted the strap of his bag and moved forward, careful not to draw attention.
Desks were arranged in uneven rows, their metal legs scraping softly as students shifted or nudged chairs back with their feet. Some were already flipping through notebooks. Others leaned together in clusters, voices low and overlapping.
Alex chose a seat near the aisle, two rows from the front. Close enough to see the board clearly. Far enough to avoid questions.
He set his bag down, slid into the chair, and pulled out his notebook. The desk wobbled slightly when he rested his arm on it. He pressed his palm flat against the surface until it steadied.
Around him, conversations drifted in fragments.
Traffic. A surprise quiz in another class. Someone asked if anyone had a spare calculator. A burst of laughter near the windows—too loud, then quickly reined in.
Alex opened his notebook and wrote the date at the top of the page. Ink flowed smoothly. Straight lines. Familiar.
He glanced at the board.
Last week's equations were still written there, faint but legible, numbers and symbols layered over older ones that hadn't been fully erased. They looked unchanged. Reliable.
A chair scraped beside him.
"Hey."
Alex looked up.
Mark stood there, bag slung over one shoulder, tie already loosened though the afternoon had barely begun. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly out of place, as if he'd stopped caring halfway through fixing it. He looked awake in a way Alex wasn't.
You look like hell," Mark said lightly. "Or like you forgot sleep exists."
Alex shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
"Same," Mark said easily, dropping into the seat next to him. "Midterms week. The Adviser chewed me out this morning, by the way."
Alex glanced over. "About the paper?"
"Yeah, but it's fixed. Mostly commas. He loves commas." Mark leaned back, stretching. "You'll be fine."
"Thanks," Alex said. He meant it.
The noise in the room thinned as the instructor entered.
She moved efficiently—bag down, papers straightened, eyes passing over the class without lingering. Chalk had already dusted her fingers. She checked the clock.
"Attendance."
A few groaned. Someone laughed under their breath.
Names were read. Answers followed. Here. Present. Yes, ma'am. The rhythm settled into something dull and predictable.
The room felt warmer.
Alex shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders. The fan above clicked once before continuing its uneven rotation.
"De la Cruz."
"Here."
The smell surfaced.
Not strong. Easy to miss beneath chalk dust and warm air. Damp. Thin. Alex's fingers curled against the edge of the desk.
"Hillary."
Alex straightened.
"Yes."
The word sounded smaller than he expected.
The instructor glanced up. "First name?"
It was an ordinary question.
Still, he hesitated.
"Alex."
She marked it down and moved on.
Mark leaned closer. "You okay?"
Alex nodded. "Yeah."
The lecture began.
The instructor turned back to the board and rewrote last week's equations where the chalk had faded, tapping lightly as she spoke. She reminded them of the methods that would appear on the midterms, the shortcuts that would cost them points, and the mistakes she was tired of seeing.
Alex copied everything carefully. His handwriting stayed neat.
The smell lingered.
It didn't grow stronger. It didn't fade. It simply stayed, thin and patient, threading through the room.
For a moment—absurdly—it reminded him of autumn. Of damp leaves and cold soil. Of a season, he only knew from pictures and textbooks. The thought almost made him scoff. Autumn didn't belong here. Not in this heat. Not in a country where the year bent around rain and sun instead of dying colors.
Alex pressed his foot flat against the floor.
Hard. Cold.
Normal.
Halfway through the hour, his eyes began to sting. He blinked and kept writing. When he glanced up again, the board looked the same. The equations hadn't moved.
When the dismissal bell rang, chairs scraped loudly as students stood. Conversation rushed back in, filling the space the silence had held.
Alex packed his things methodically.
As he stood, his gaze caught on the attendance sheet at the front desk. His name sat there among the others, clean and official.
Alexander Hillary.
For a moment, the name felt heavier than it should have.
Then Mark clapped him on the shoulder, and the thought slipped away.