The echo of a little girl's voice bounced down the hallway. It was a scream — brief, sharp, and enough to silence all chatter.
Students gathered, shoes screeching on the floor, eyes flicking toward the source. One boy laughed nervously, then he fell silent when no one joined him. Curiosity hung heavily in the air.
When she opened her locker, something small and fragile caught her eye. A circle of tiny white and yellow flowers lay there, woven into a necklace. It looked hastingly done.
She picked it up, holding it at arm's length as if it might bite. A shiver ran down her spine.
"Who did this?" a voice called from down the hall.
A few students edged closer. Whispers spread. The teacher would be here soon.
The teacher arrived before anyone answered. His steps were measured, almost calm, as he made his way through the gathered students. He didn't ask what happened at first. He looked.
The girl stood stiff beside her locker, her face tight. The flowers lay on the floor between her shoes, already losing their shape where someone had stepped too close.
The teacher followed her gaze. His expression didn't change, but something hardened in his eyes.
"Who did this?" he asked.
Silence spread faster than the scream had. A few students shifted uncomfortably. Someone glanced toward the back of the hallway, then quickly looked at the teacher. The teacher exhaled through his nose and glanced at the clock mounted above the lockers.
"This," he said, nudging the flowers aside with the tip of his shoe, "is a waste of time."
His eyes lifted, scanning the students again — this time less carefully. When they reached Merlin, they didn't linger. They stopped.
"You," the teacher said.
Merlin didn't react. He just stared with an unreadable expression.
"You know better than this," the teacher continued, his tone flat. "With everything that needs doing."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Someone whispered Merlin's name.
Behind them, Riya's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She stared at the floor, then at the teacher, then back at the flowers. Her lip trembled once before she caught it.
"I didn't ask for this," she said suddenly, louder than she meant to. The words came out stiff, practiced. "I don't want... things like this."
The teacher nodded, satisfied. "Good."
For a moment, nothing happened.
The teacher stepped aside, clearing the space between the girl and Merlin as if he were rearranging furniture.
"Say something," someone whispered.
Merlin didn't. He kept his eyes forward, unfocused, as if he were already somewhere else.
Riya looked at him then — really looked. His face wasn't defiant. It wasn't smug. It was empty.
Her chest tightened.
She lifted her hand before she had time to think.
The sound cracked through the hallway. Sharp. Final.
Merlin's head turned slightly with the impact. He didn't fall. He didn't raise his hand. He just stood there, his eyes shook with disbelief, blinking once, as if confused by the noise.
A hush followed — heavier than the one before.
The teacher reacted instantly, stepping forward and catching Riya's wrist before she could pull her hand back.
"That's enough," he said, not raising his voice.
He turned to Merlin. "Office. Now."
The office smelled faintly of chalk and old paper. The door closed behind Merlin with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
"Sit," the teacher said.
Merlin sat. The chair was too small for him now, but no one ever changed it.
The teacher didn't speak right away. He shuffled a few papers on his desk, straightened a pen that was already straight, then finally looked up.
"Do you understand why this can't happen?"
Merlin nodded once.
Because it doesn't lead anywhere, he thought.
The teacher sighed, rubbing his temple. "You think before you act. That's what makes this worse. If this were anyone else, I'd assume they were just being careless."
He paused. "But you're not anyone else."
Merlin's fingers curled slightly against his leg.
That again.
"You know what's expected of you," the teacher continued. "This place doesn't run on gestures. It runs on structure. Time. Control."
Merlin stared at the edge of the desk. A faint scratch ran along the wood, like someone had tried to carve something and stopped halfway.
They always stop halfway, he thought.
"What were you trying to do?" the teacher asked.
Merlin opened his mouth. Then closed it.
There was no answer that wouldn't sound like a mistake.
The teacher leaned back, disappointment settling into his face as if it belonged there. "You're old enough to know that feelings don't build systems. They only get in the way."
Then why do they keep punishing people for having them?
Merlin didn't ask.
"Go to class," the teacher said finally. "And don't waste my time like this again."
Merlin stood. As he reached the door, the teacher added, almost casually, "You'll understand all this one day."
Merlin paused, his hand on the handle.
I already do, he thought.
He left without saying a word.
Merlin returned to the classroom just as the bell rang. Chairs scraped against the floor as students poured out in uneven lines, voices overlapping into noise he couldn't separate.
Riya passed him near the doorway. She didn't look at him.
Merlin slowed for half a second, then continued inside.
The room emptied quickly. A few books lay open on desks, forgotten. Someone had left a window ajar, and a thin breeze stirred the curtains.
Merlin sat in his seat — the corner, two rows back.
He rested his hands on the desk. His index finger began to tap. Once. Again.
The sound was sharp in his ears. Everything else dulled. The clock's ticking faded into a low pulse. The lights hummed, distant and thin.
He didn't move when the second bell rang.
Or the third.
Eventually, the hallway fell quiet.
Merlin stared at the desk, at the shallow marks left by people who had sat there before him.
His finger stopped tapping.
The room felt smaller than it should have been.