"Over here is the cafeteria," Ms. Jang announced, pausing beside a pair of wide double doors with little rectangular windows near the top.
She tapped her knuckle against one of them with a familiar sort of fondness, like knocking on the door of an old friend.
"You'll be eating lunch here every day, so believe me— you'll get to know it very, very well."
The doors swung open with a soft groan, revealing a vast room bathed in the warm spill of late-morning sunlight.
Golden beams poured through tall windows and splashed onto the linoleum floors, forming lazy pools of light that seemed to stretch and melt across the tile like butter left too long in the sun.
Rows of silver-legged tables gleamed dully beneath the light, and plastic trays, stacked neatly in pastel towers, waited patiently at the end of each line like quiet little sentinels.
There was a particular smell that hung in the air— faint, but unmistakable— the comforting steam of white rice mingled with the sharp bite of metal and the ever-present tang of disinfectant.
A scent that, somehow, always managed to say: this is where lunch lives.
Behind the serving counter, two cafeteria workers in mint-green aprons busied themselves in the kitchen.
One of them looked up and noticed the children clustered at the door, her face breaking into a slow smile as she raised a gloved hand in a cheerful, lazy wave.
The other grinned, lifted a ladle, and gave her coworker a playful bop on the head with the handle, drawing a round of delighted laughter from the students that danced off the tiled walls.
"She's funny!" a little girl whispered far too loudly, her eyes wide with glee.
Ms. Jang chuckled.
"She is. But remember," she said, leaning in just enough that the group instinctively leaned with her, "always carry your tray with both hands. So don't drop it, and bow when you say thank you. These ladies wake up before the sun, so you can eat warm food at noon. That's no small thing."
Several students gave solemn little nods at that, a few even offering shy, imaginary bows toward the lunch ladies, who responded with exaggerated flourishes and mock curtsies.
"Are we having jjajang today?" one voice piped up from the middle of the group, filled with hope.
"I want kimchi ramen!" said another.
"No way. It's always soybean soup on the first day," a boy muttered with theatrical despair, clutching his stomach like he'd been cursed.
That earned another ripple of laughter, the kind that felt light and easy, the kind that bubbled up without thinking and filled every inch of the corridor.
They moved on soon after, trailing behind Ms. Jang as she continued down the hall.
Next came the art room, small and slightly chaotic, its door propped open with a lump of hardened clay shaped vaguely like a turtle with two heads.
A soft breeze drifted through the opening, carrying with it a sticky-sweet scent of white glue, crayon wax, dust, and something faintly floral— possibly the soap someone had spilled while washing paintbrushes.
Inside, a teacher stood by a low sink, laughing softly as she tried to scrub blue paint off a little boy's cheeks, the pigment having found its way into the corners of his eyebrows and even a bit inside his left ear.
The walls around them were a kaleidoscope of colorful clutter— construction paper collages pinned in wild angles, yarn tangled in glued spirals, glitter sparkling in little chaotic bursts across the bulletin board like the aftermath of a tiny explosion.
"Is that spaghetti hair?" one girl asked, pressing her face to the glass.
The teacher inside turned, fingers stained entirely blue, and gave a goofy little wave that set the whole group giggling.
"Don't worry," Ms. Jang said, her voice warm.
"We'll make our masterpieces soon. But no eating glue, even if it smells like sweet."
"Someone in my daycare ate glue and didn't die," a boy blurted proudly.
"What a shame," she said, smiling sweetly. "Still— no eating glue."
They continued down the hall, and soon Ms. Jang raised a single finger to her lips as they slowed before a set of tall wooden doors with frosted glass panes.
She pressed the finger there with great seriousness, eyes wide with mischief.
"This," she whispered, "is the library."
The children leaned forward like birds on a wire.
"We whisper here," she said, lowering her voice even further, "or the book ghost might hear you."
There was a beat of confused silence.
"The what?" a girl asked softly, her pigtails swaying as she tilted her head.
"The book ghost," Ms. Jang said, crouching to meet their eye level.
"She used to be a librarian a long, long time ago. But she loved books so much that she never left the shelves. She read every single one, day after day, year after year… until she became part of the library."
Gasps. A few giggles, some nervous, some delighted.
"She's quiet, very quiet, and she likes it quiet." Ms. Jang continued.
"And if you're noisy, she might come out and… shhhh you so hard your voice disappears for a whole week."
A boy in the back instinctively grabbed his throat.
"You're joking," a girl muttered.
But even she glanced sideways at the glass with a flicker of unease.
Through the frosted panes, tall shelves loomed, stacked high and heavy, stretching into dim corners where light faded to gold-edged shadow.
The air inside looked thicker somehow— dustier, and stiller— as though time slowed down in there, or maybe just sat quietly waiting.
At the front sat a small wooden desk, simple and low, with a thick ink pad and an old stamping tool perched like forgotten relics.
Behind it, a gray-cardiganed librarian flipped through a thin paperback, her head bowed so low she might have been asleep.
She didn't move. She didn't look up.
The ticking of a wall clock echoed faintly in the silence.
"There are thousands of books," Ms. Jang murmured.
"Some are new. Some are so old, their pages are soft as feathers. Some might even remember who last read them."
"Do they move?" a boy whispered, eyes wide.
"Only when they're lonely," Ms. Jang said with a twinkle.
"So make sure you visit often. They like feeling needed."
That made a few students press closer, squinting through the frosted panes with hesitant wonder.
A girl gasped and pointed at something between the shelves.
"I saw it move!"
Ms. Jang said nothing, only smiled, and stood slowly.
"Oh, and yes— you'll all get library time," she added.
"Your quiet hour. And if you're very polite, the book ghost might let you leave with your voice… and maybe even a little secret."
A breathless hush settled over the group.
Someone dropped their water bottle and didn't dare pick it up.
Then came a soft sound from within.
A dull thump, like a book falling, or something stepping, maybe both.
"Come on now," Ms. Jang whispered.
"Don't stare. She doesn't like to be watched."
As they stepped away, a girl tugged on her sleeve.
"Are there magic books in there?" she asked.
"Maybe," Ms. Jang replied, tilting her head.
"Like ghost books?"
"Let's hope not," she said with a chuckle, but her eyes flicked once, quickly, back toward the door.
The shelves beyond the glass were packed like puzzle pieces— too orderly, too still.
The door itself hung slightly ajar, as if breathing.
Somewhere inside, another page turned with a soft rustle.
"Do we get library cards?" one boy asked.
"Even better," she said, standing straighter. "You get time."
There was a pause.
No one really understood what that meant, but something in the way she said it made even the louder boys fall quiet.
She leaned close again, as if letting them in on a secret.
"This is where the book ghost lives," she whispered.
Gasps. Wider eyes. Another thump inside.
"Let's go," she said, clapping her hands. "He only comes out for noisy kids."
They moved on, stepping into a stairwell tucked quietly behind the hallway walls.
The stairs were wide and clean, padded at the edges and marked with rainbow arrows.
A mural climbed beside them— smiling dinosaurs floating with balloons, a lion in round spectacles reading under a tree, a rocket made entirely of crayons blasting toward the fluorescent stars above.
"This leads to the rooftop garden," Ms. Jang explained.
"We won't go up today. But on sunny days, we'll play up there. We grow cherry tomatoes and lettuce. There's a wind chime that sings if you run fast enough."
"Can we plant strawberries?" someone asked.
"Do the wind chimes really sing, or do they just make clinky noises?" another wondered.
Ms. Jang smiled. "You'll find out soon enough."
At the foot of the stairs, Taejun lingered behind the others.
He wasn't looking at the mural or the ceiling.
He was staring at the shadowed space beneath the stairwell— at nothing in particular, and yet at something all the same.
The air felt colder here, still as breath held too long.
It tugged gently at his bangs like a whisper trying to speak without words.
He didn't say anything. But he didn't look away, either.
He turned slowly, his gaze drifting after the class as they began moving again— this time with more energy, their voices swelling into excited chatter that danced through the corridor.
They spoke of wind chimes they'd seen on balconies, of storybooks about ghosts hiding in libraries, and whether the rooftop would let them see the whole ocean or if that was just another one of Ms. Jang's fairy tales.
The hallway, moments ago quiet and still, now filled with light and echoing footsteps, their laughter bouncing off the polished floor like smooth stones skimming across a lake.
Sunlight spilled in from the tall windows, catching in the glass display cases and painting golden streaks across their hair and backpacks.
Ms. Jang clapped her hands, a bright staccato sound. "Back to Room 205, everyone!"
The neat line they'd walked in dissolved instantly into a cheerful mess of bouncing steps and scattered conversations.
Backpacks jostled, swinging against small frames; arms flailed as if trying to chase butterflies only they could see.
Some children ran with abandon, their sneakers slapping the floor, while others shuffled like sleepy ducks, too busy whispering about tomatoes and haunted books and whether dinosaurs ever liked lettuce to notice how far behind they'd fallen.
Taejun followed, much slower than the rest— not out of rebellion or boredom, but as though something in the air had reached out and gently asked him to linger.
The stairwell behind him groaned faintly, the sound subtle, like a breath being drawn in and held.
He felt it more than heard it, and though his feet kept moving, his heart remained anchored somewhere just behind that last step.
He didn't turn to look.
Inside the classroom, the warm scent of chalk dust and old books hung in the air.
Ms. Jang's voice met them like a soft blanket, wrapping around their chatter and slowly guiding it to a hush.
"Now that we know the classroom," she said, turning to the board with a smile, "let's talk about the rules."
The chalk tapped against the surface with a rhythmic scratch, each word emerging slowly in her steady hand, each letter shaped with the carefulness of someone who had written these same lines too many times to count, yet still treated them like promises rather than orders.
1. Listen when someone is talking.
2. Raise your hand before speaking.
3. Be kind to your classmates.
4. Take care of your things.
5. Always try your best.
Her shoulders rose and fell with a practiced breath as she glanced over her shoulder, her smile still wide, but the shine in her eyes carried the tired glimmer of memory— like a record playing a beloved song too often, the needle now beginning to wear.
"Let's remember these every day," she said warmly.
"And if you forget, don't worry. I'll be here to remind you. We're all learning together."
The children echoed her words with playful enthusiasm, their voices overlapping in high-pitched unison as they chanted each rule, their tones laced with innocence and something like hope.
Their little voices filled the room like birdsong at dawn.
Taejun sat quietly at his desk, his hands resting on the smooth surface of the wood, fingers tracing aimless patterns along its faint grain.
It was cool beneath his skin, solid and real in a way the rest of the room didn't feel.
The rules meant nothing to him— not now, not here, not when every corner of this bright place felt like it was borrowing warmth that didn't quite reach him.
His movements were slow, distant— like the hands of a clock ticking in an empty room.
Around him, the others were alive with noise and breath, but to Taejun, it all felt like something happening underwater, blurred and far away.
Then, a clap snapped through the air, sharp and cheerful. Ms. Jang again. "Alright, everyone! Let's play a quick game before our first lesson!"
The atmosphere shifted.
The room stirred with a different kind of energy— curiosity, anticipation, the electric fizz of children waiting for something fun.
Smiles spread. Small shoulders straightened.
Some kids turned to each other, whispering guesses at what the game might be, their excitement bubbling up before the rules had even been explained.
"We'll play 'When the teacher says,'" Ms. Jang announced, hands clasped together like it was a secret too delightful to hold onto.
"If you mess up, you come to the front of the class. Ready?"
Laughter sprinkled through the room.
A few kids raised their hands before remembering they didn't need to yet.
A boy in the back mimicked a drumroll on his desk.
Taejun didn't move. The words floated past him like leaves in the wind.
Another game. Another brief distraction he didn't feel invited to. He didn't want to be invited.
"When the teacher says— touch your nose!"
A flurry of motion.
Dozens of small hands flew to faces, some too quickly, others a second too late.
Giggling erupted as a girl in pigtails gasped, realizing she'd touched her ear instead.
"Ah! You're out!" Ms. Jang called, pointing playfully.
Laughter followed her voice, warm and familiar, the kind that made the classroom feel like a living, breathing thing.
But Taejun remained perfectly still, his gaze locked on the wooden pattern beneath his palms, unmoved, unfazed.
The game continued without him.
"When the teacher says— clap your hands!"
Hands smacked together in a thunder of tiny slaps.
Chairs squeaked under sudden movement. Taejun's hands didn't leave his lap.
"When the teacher says— jump up!"
A burst of motion.
Feet thudded, desks rattled, and someone nearly tripped and fell into a neighbor's chair.
The energy soared.
And still, Taejun sat, calm and as if in a different season than the rest.
Ms. Jang's voice broke through with a singsong lilt. "Ah! Taejun, you're out!"
There was a beat of silence. Just one.
Then the laughter resumed— but softer now, tinged with a strange undercurrent.
Some children giggled uncertainly, glancing at Taejun with wide eyes.
Others looked confused, whispering to one another behind cupped hands.
One boy frowned, as though trying to decide whether it was okay to laugh or not.
Taejun didn't react. His head didn't lift.
His fingers kept tracing the same invisible line on the desk, as if nothing had changed.
As if he hadn't heard.
Ms. Jang's smile lingered, but there was something different in it now— something smaller, cautious, like the curl of a ribbon left too long in the sun.
"Taejun," she said again, gentler this time, her voice carefully rounded.
"You're out! Come to the front."
The room stilled slightly.
It wasn't the silence of suspense or drama, but the quiet that comes when something unfamiliar presses gently into a place that's supposed to be predictable.
And still, Taejun didn't move.
The world spun around him, full of laughter and light, but he remained outside its orbit, watching, listening, and waiting.