The chalk scraped softly against the board, leaving behind curved letters that caught the lamplight. Sarah sat at a wooden desk near the center of the room, her posture straight, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. She held a pencil lightly between her fingers, tapping it once against the lined notebook in front of her before carefully copying the words.
"Thurs-day," she sounded out slowly, eyes moving from the board to her paper.
The tutor, a kind-eyed man with graying temples and a wool cardigan, gave an encouraging nod. "Very good. Just remember the 's' sound flows, not bites. Try it again, smoothly."
Sarah tried again. "Thursday."
Behind her, the windows reflected the last light of day. It was dusk, the sky mottled with gray and peach, shadows stretching like fingers across the tiled floor. Mia stood at the back of the room, silent, arms crossed loosely. From her spot beside a bookshelf filled with dog-eared readers and half-empty boxes of chalk, she could see Sarah's concentration sharpen with each repetition.
The desks in the room were mismatched—some a little too high, others squeaky on one leg. A faint scent of old wood and whiteboard markers lingered in the air. The radiator hissed periodically, a soft backdrop to the cadence of hesitant words.
Sarah stumbled on a passage in the reader, catching on a word—"preparation." Her pencil stopped moving.
The tutor leaned over slightly. "Let's break it down. What do you see?"
Sarah blinked, then whispered, "Prepare. Then…ation?"
Mia's lips curved just barely. Good. She's learning the patterns.
"Exactly," the tutor said. "See? You're not just memorizing—you're building. That's what reading really is."
Sarah nodded, a small flush of pride warming her cheeks. She adjusted in her chair, erasing a crooked letter and rewriting it with firmer pressure.
In the back of the room, Mia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The sight of Sarah's growing confidence felt like a balm against the tension that never fully left her spine. Every evening they made it this far without incident was a tiny triumph. And this—this classroom—felt safe.
But that safety, she knew, was temporary. Borrowed.
She glanced at the worn program logbook on the corner desk. Names were written in neat columns, with dates and tutor initials in the margins. Her eyes caught the page marked today. A line drawn beneath Sarah's name, then a comment: "Shows promise. Consider recommendation for Level 2 review."
Mia exhaled slowly. Progress. Real progress.
But just below the note, another mark. A red asterisk.
She frowned. Leaned in.
Admin to review attendance and capacity limits—urgent.
Her fingers tightened on her coat sleeve.
The budget. Of course. She remembered the whisper at the diner earlier in the week—someone mentioned cuts to evening community programs. Too few teachers. Too many students. She had hoped it wouldn't touch this room.
But hope, she reminded herself, was not a plan.
Sarah finished her reading and looked up with a small, tentative smile. The tutor mirrored it with ease.
"You've earned a break," he said. "Ten minutes. Want some cocoa from the hallway cart?"
Sarah nodded and rose, stretching her arms as she walked past Mia without seeing her.
Mia let herself breathe again once Sarah disappeared into the hallway.
She moved closer to the board, eyes on the still-open logbook. She didn't touch it—but her gaze memorized the notation.
Urgent.
The word buzzed at the base of her skull.
Not tonight, she promised herself. Not this program.
⸻
When Sarah returned, a paper cup in hand and steam curling beneath her nose, her mood was lighter. She sat again, flipping to the next page in her notebook. This one was mostly blank, except for a doodle of a spiral in the upper corner. Mia recognized it instantly. A reflex she hadn't even known Sarah had inherited.
The tutor resumed with a spelling exercise, calling out simple words and guiding the class through structure and pronunciation. Sarah's pencil moved steadily now, lines sure and even.
From the back, Mia didn't write. But she noted everything.
She watched the dusk outside give way to full night, fluorescent lights above flickering once before settling into a steady glow.
The lesson stretched on, rhythmic and ordinary.
But for Mia, every line Sarah wrote was a miracle of its own.
⸻
After class, Sarah stayed behind to clean the board. The tutor was called into the office, and the room was left to quiet.
Mia watched as Sarah erased each word carefully, then dusted chalk from her fingers. She looked around once, almost wistfully, then packed her things.
As she turned to go, she passed the logbook but didn't look down.
Mia stepped closer to the board. A faint outline of Sarah's writing remained, the ghost of a name mid-erased: her own.
She lifted one hand and traced it gently.
Then turned off the last light.
⸻
Outside, the air had cooled further. The light above the school's rear door buzzed quietly as Mia exited. Sarah walked ahead, her backpack slung over one shoulder, stepping carefully around patches of damp sidewalk.
Mia didn't follow too closely. Just enough to keep the rhythm.
She looked down once more at the copy she'd made of the logbook comment, transcribed hurriedly into her own notes:
Level 2: possible if space allows.
She underlined it.
Then added one final line before slipping the notebook away:
We will make room.
As they reached the intersection, Sarah paused to adjust her bag and glance up at the sky. A faint smile tugged at her lips—just a small curl, but unmistakably real.
Mia lingered on the opposite curb, not interfering. Just present.
A car passed between them, headlights momentarily bright. When the glare faded, Sarah had already crossed.
The moment was small.
But enough.
The wind picked up slightly, curling around the edge of Mia's coat. She took a breath, slow and deep, and stepped off the curb after her.
The path home was quiet, and as they walked in unspoken tandem, the silence felt earned—not heavy.
⸻
When they reached the apartment building, Sarah glanced once over her shoulder.
She didn't say anything.
But she didn't have to.
She waited until the lock clicked open behind her, then pushed the door fully and left it ajar for Mia to follow.
That small gesture—thoughtless, unforced—landed heavier than any spoken word.
Mia stepped inside, letting the warmth of the stairwell surround her. The door eased shut behind them both.