The late afternoon sun poured into Room 204, drawing long golden stripes across the faded chalkboard. Dust danced lazily in the air, like it had nowhere else to be.

The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings and old books—Margaret’s favorite scent, though she’d never admit it aloud.

She stood at the front, hands folded neatly, shoulders square. Her gaze swept over the room.

Tenth graders. Fifteen and sixteen years old. Restless and growing. Some leaned back in their chairs like they were already too cool for learning.

Others stared blankly ahead, their minds a hundred miles away. But she knew most of them tried. Most of them cared—more than they let on.

“You’ve all come a long way,” Margaret began, her voice calm, practiced, and warm. Like an old sweater pulled out for comfort.

“That exam in two weeks will shape a part of your future. Maybe not all of it, but enough. So give it your best.”

A few students nodded. One girl scribbled something in her notebook.

A boy adjusted his hoodie, as if sitting straighter might bring him luck. But from the back corner came a ripple of laughter.

Margaret didn’t flinch. She already knew the source.

“Connor,” she said without raising her voice, “would you like to contribute something useful?”

He didn’t even turn around. He lounged sideways in his chair, legs stretched into the aisle, arm hanging carelessly over the back.

“Nah,” he said, voice loud enough for everyone. “I already know I’m good. Born into the right family. I don’t need any of this.”

Margaret stepped away from the board, her heels clicking softly across the floor. She stopped just short of his desk. Her tone stayed even.

“Even if your future’s guaranteed, Connor, the rest of this class is working hard for theirs. Respect that.”

He turned to face her now. Smug. Confident. “You’ll never make in a lifetime what I spend in a summer.”

The classroom went silent. Someone dropped a pencil. No one laughed this time.

Margaret looked at him steadily. Her heart beat once, hard, but her face didn’t show it.