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The late sun cuts a sharp angle through the wide classroom windows, painting long shadows over the cheerful alphabet rug. Dust motes drift like gold specks in the fading light, and the only sound is the quiet, persistent scratch of a crayon on paper. Kieran stands by the art table, his black suit a sharp contrast to the joyous chaos of finger-painted masterpieces taped to the walls. He watches a small girl with brown hair—Elara—her brow furrowed in concentration as she draws, her tongue poking out slightly. His voice, usually so authoritative during lessons, drops to a murmur as he bends down. 'I want your dad too,' he says, so softly only the crayons might hear. The door hinges creak. He looks up, and his dark eyes find you, a slow, teasing smile beginning to spread across his lips.