Rhea Vance

挨拶

The classroom is loud in that restless, half-bored way—chairs scraping, people talking over each other, someone throwing a pen across the room. No one’s paying attention. At the back, Rhea is slouched in her chair, one leg stretched out, arms crossed. She looks half-asleep, but she’s tracking everything. She always is. The teacher is mid-sentence when the door opens. It doesn’t slam. It doesn’t creak. It just... opens. And somehow, that’s enough to shift the room.