In a world much like our own — a world that turns quietly beneath the steady rhythm of everyday life —
there stood a city bathed in the soft light of morning.
The air shimmered faintly with warmth as sunlight streamed down from a pale sky.
Outside, the faint sound of birdsong drifted from the branches of trees,
their gentle chirps carried along by a passing breeze that rustled through the leaves.
Inside that city, among the countless streets and buildings,
stood a school — ordinary to those who passed by,
yet within its walls, it contained countless small worlds of laughter, dreams, and fleeting memories.
As the morning bell approached, the echo of footsteps filled the hallways —
the sharp, rhythmic sound of shoes striking polished tile floors,
interwoven with the low hum of chatter that pulsed through the air like a living heartbeat.
Within one particular classroom — a typical classroom, yet full of life —
stood rows of neatly arranged wooden desks.
The tabletops bore faint scratches and carvings, marks left behind by students of years past.
The chalkboard at the front was still dusted with pale white residue,
the edges faintly smudged by the teacher's previous lessons.
Sunlight spilled in through the windows, its golden beams catching particles of dust
that drifted lazily in the air like glimmering motes of light.
The warmth of the sun softened the edges of everything it touched,
giving the room a quiet, peaceful glow.
In that classroom sat thirty-six students —
each with their own small world, their own thoughts, and their own stories.
The air was filled with voices — overlapping conversations, bursts of laughter,
and the occasional sharp whisper that cut through the noise.
The faint scent of paper and ink hung in the air,
mixed with the smell of freshly polished wood and the faint metallic tang of desk hinges.
There were many groups — distinct yet harmoniously disordered.
A group of boys who carried themselves with confidence and charm,
sitting proudly near the center, always laughing louder than anyone else.
Then there was the group of boys whose attitudes weren't as gentle —
their voices rough, their laughter edged with arrogance,
their desks scattered with crumpled paper and half-finished doodles.
Another group sat apart, quieter —
boys who loved stories, fantasy worlds, and imagination;
they often held comic books or whispered about distant adventures.
Near them sat those who were simply ordinary —
boys who studied just enough, spoke only when needed,
and watched the day pass by without making much noise.
On the other side of the room sat clusters of girls.
Some were refined and composed, their posture straight and their tones soft yet confident —
the kind of presence that drew eyes effortlessly.
Another group was louder, rougher —
girls who laughed boisterously, gossiped freely,
and often drew amused or annoyed glances from the others.
And finally, there were the normal girls —
neither too loud nor too quiet,
living their days in balance, simply going along with the rhythm of the class.
Yet among all these voices, all this chatter and motion,
there was one spot of stillness —
a pocket of silence at the very back of the room, near the window.
There sat a girl with long black hair that flowed down her back like silk.
Her name was Hemeno.
Her hair caught the sunlight that streamed in through the glass,
and for a moment, the black strands seemed to shimmer faintly with a soft golden hue.
Her eyes, deep and dark like polished obsidian, reflected the world with quiet detachment.
They were eyes that seemed to hold the weight of distant thoughts —
as if she were looking at something far beyond the classroom, far beyond the present moment.
She wore her school uniform neatly —
a white blouse with a crisp collar,
and a pleated skirt that fluttered gently whenever the breeze slipped through the window.
Her hands rested quietly atop her desk, her posture calm,
and yet something about her seemed so fragile, so distant —
as if a single gust of wind might scatter her away.
Hemeno had no group, no circle of friends.
While others laughed, whispered, and moved about,
she remained in her silent world.
Her gaze sometimes drifted toward the window,
watching sunlight ripple across the glass,
or she would lower her eyes, tracing with her fingertips
the faint carvings and pen marks left by past students on the desk.
Her expression was unreadable — neither sad nor happy —
just quietly existing, breathing, observing.
Time flowed until the door slid open with a familiar sound.
The teacher entered, the echo of her heels clicking softly against the floor.
Conversations faded, replaced by the soft rustle of uniforms and chairs.
The teacher, a woman with calm authority, walked to the front
and placed her papers down upon the desk.
Her smile was gentle yet disciplined — the smile of someone
who had long been accustomed to both noise and silence.
The chalk touched the board with a dry scrape —
and soon, the steady rhythm of her writing filled the room.
Hemeno lifted her gaze, her dark eyes watching quietly,
absorbing every word, every motion without expression.
Outside, the curtains fluttered lightly.
The wind brushed against the glass.
The hum of the fluorescent lights blended with the rustle of paper pages being turned.
It was an ordinary day — calm, familiar, endlessly repeating.
Until it wasn't.
Without warning, a faint light appeared in the center of the room.
At first, it was so small that it could have been mistaken for a speck of dust
reflecting the morning sun — but it lingered, pulsing softly.
Then, it began to grow.
The glow expanded in slow waves,
casting long shadows across the walls and ceiling.
Students began to notice — eyes widened, voices faltered,
and soon the air filled with murmurs of confusion.
The light grew brighter.
Its radiance intensified until every object in the room shimmered beneath its glow.
The golden warmth turned white, then silver, then blinding.
The chatter dissolved into chaos —
some students stood abruptly, chairs scraping against the floor with a screech,
while others cried out, shielding their eyes with trembling hands.
The teacher's voice rose, sharp with alarm,
but her words were lost in the roaring brightness.
The light became everything.
It devoured the room — every desk, every wall, every breath of air.
It swallowed sound itself until all that remained was silence.
For a heartbeat, time stopped.
There was no motion, no color, no presence —
only an all-consuming whiteness that filled existence.
And then, as swiftly as it had come… it was gone.
What remained was nothing.
The classroom — once alive with laughter and voices —
now stood silent and empty.
The desks and chairs remained exactly as they had been,
but not a single student could be found.
The breeze still swayed the curtains,
and sunlight still spilled across the floor,
but there was no one to see it anymore.
The silence that followed was not the same silence as before.
It was heavy — deep, almost suffocating.
It lingered in the corners, pressed against the walls,
and wrapped the room in a sense of something lost and unspoken.
Only the faint echo of what had just been —
a moment of life, laughter, and sound —
seemed to remain, drifting faintly in the emptiness.
And so, the classroom stood still,
bathed in light that no longer held warmth,
in a world where thirty-six voices had vanished,
leaving behind only the ghost of their presence,
and the soft whisper of wind through the curtains —
the last trace of what once was.