I nodded, my movements slow, as I approached her desk. The classroom was empty now, save for the two of us—a tableau that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. The silence was palpable, filled with unspoken questions and the ghost of a shared past. I waited, the air thick with anticipation, for the teacher to reveal the purpose behind her solemn request.
The teacher's proximity was unnerving, her scrutinizing gaze felt like it could peel back the layers of my very soul. "You don't look at all like a Blackwell to me," she remarked, her fingers hovering over the space where a full horn should have been on my forehead. I could feel a knot of stress forming, and I remained silent, unable to form words.
"Don't stress, I'm not going to do anything to you, so you can breathe again," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. I took a deep breath, feeling the tension ease slightly. "You're not a real Blackwell, are you?" she probed once more, her eyes locked onto mine.
