After the Last Bell



No one remembered when the clocks in the classroom stopped agreeing with each other. They ticked, but never in unison—each marking a different hour, a different truth.
She stayed late, as always.
The students used to joke about her eyes. Said they glowed when the lights flickered, like something watching from behind a thin mask of kindness. But the jokes stopped after Daniel stayed behind one afternoon and never came back to class.
Now the room sat empty, desks perfectly aligned, the air too still.
She turned slowly toward the door, smiling as if someone had just arrived. The overhead lamp hummed, casting a golden glow that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You’re just in time,” she said softly.
From the hallway, no one answered.
But the clocks—
 every single one—
 clicked into sync.