It was the summer of 2021 — the kind of heat that pressed on your skin like fire.
Even though the pandemic hadn't fully gone, the school reopened for tenth-grade students to prepare for their board exams.
That day, the classroom walls were sweating. The ceiling fans turned lazily, doing more noise than work. Everyone was half awake, faces drooping behind their masks.
Their teacher sighed, wiping her forehead. "It's too hot inside. Go sit in the corridors if you want. Just don't disturb others."
Tria and her best friend Sia exchanged a glance — that silent "let's go" look. They picked up their books and stepped into the long corridor that faced the main gate.
From their bench, they could see the pond glittering in the distance, the playground melting under the sun, and the iron gate shimmering like liquid metal.
For a while, everything was normal — papers flipping, someone whispering, the hum of cicadas. But the heat made even the air heavy. The day felt slower than usual, quieter.
Too quiet.