Chapter Twenty-Seven
ANALYSE
Ipull into the familiar parking lot, the tires crunching over a thin layer of freshly fallen snow. It’s completely empty except for my car, a quiet reminder that it’s Sunday and no one else is here. I shift into park, take a deep breath, and glance in the rearview mirror, seeing Maya bundled up like a marshmallow in her oversize pink puff coat.
The cold bites at my cheeks the moment I step out. Snow crunches beneath my boots with every step as I lift the large white storage bin from the backseat. Behind me, Maya struggles to carry a box wrapped in shiny blue snowflake paper, her little arms barely managing to keep it balanced. The box wobbles, but she keeps going, her coat rustling with every determined step.
“Careful with that, mamita,” I say gently. “It’s mostly paper in there, but I don’t want anything to rip.”
“I’ve got it, Mami,” she grunts, arms wrapped around the sides. “I’m strong.”
I smile. “That you are, sweetheart.”
We head for the side entrance, the one closest to my classroom. The building looms quiet and still, the usual weekday buzz replaced by a rare kind of hush that only exists when the world hasn’t quite woken up.
Most teachers prefer Saturdays for catching up or setting up their classrooms, but I’ve always been partial to Sundays. There’s something sacred about the silence—the way the hallways feel wider, the fluorescent lights softer, the echo of our footsteps a gentle metronome in the stillness. It’s the kind of quiet that helps me think, the kind that settles the noise in my mind and lets me breathe deeper.
We push through the heavy side doors, and a blast of cold air greets us, our breaths rising in soft white puffs that vanish into the dim hallway. The heating hasn’t kicked in yet—no surprise there. The ancient system is supposed to activate when the building senses movement, but on weekends, it usually needs a little coaxing. Right now, the air is sharp enough to sting my nose.
The janitor’s office is dark, the door shut tight with no flicker of light beneath it. The corridors are half-lit, overhead fluorescents flickering weakly, casting long shadows that stretch across the tile. Only a few bulbs are on, buzzing faintly like they’re as reluctant to be awake as the rest of the world.
There’s no background noise—no chorus of sneakers squeaking on waxed floors, no lockers slamming, no laughter echoing down the halls. Just the sound of our footsteps, mine steady and Maya’s a quick, bouncing rhythm behind me.
I shift the white bin in my arms and fumble for my keys, the metal cold against my fingers as I unlock my classroom door. It sticks slightly before swinging open, and Maya wiggles past me with her box and a puff of determination. She makes it to the first table and sets it down with a sigh of victory then beams up at me, proud of her strength.
The classroom feels like it’s been holding its breath overbreak. The gingerbread cut-outs still cling to the windowpanes, faded slightly at the edges. A slightly lopsidedHappy Holidaysbanner is still taped above the whiteboard, and paper snowflakes—some symmetrical, others charmingly crooked—decorate the walls. Each one a reminder of the busy hands and bright energy that filled this space just a few weeks ago. The room smells faintly of peppermint-scented sanitizer and dry erase markers, an odd but oddly comforting mix.
I lower the storage bin to the floor with a soft thud then slip off my coat, the warmth of the movement already starting to ease the chill from my bones.
“This is going to be our little winter refresh,” I say as I crouch beside the bin and flip the lid open. “New bulletin board borders, snowman crafts, a cozy rug for the reading corner, and a few new book displays. Fresh start for the new year.”
Maya’s face lights up with excitement. “Can I do the snowman ones?”
“Absolutely,” I say with a smile, handing her a Ziploc bag filled with foam shapes, construction papers, googly eyes, and buttons. “Go sit at the reading table, I’ll grab your snack.”
She clutches the bag and skips to the reading corner, where the little rug waits. She drops cross-legged onto it with ease and starts pulling out supplies, already humming a tune under her breath—something cheerful and familiar.
I unzip her lunchbox and pull out a juice box and a foil-wrapped sandwich. “Here you go,” I say, bringing it to her.
“Thanks, Mami,” she says, unwrapping it quickly and taking a bite like she hasn’t eaten in hours. My little drama queen.
As she munches, she spreads the snowman pieces out across the rug, arranging them with an intense concentration she surely gets from me. I watch her for a moment—socontent, so creative—and feel something warm settle in my chest. This moment is exactly what I needed after the chaos from last night. Just the two of us.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
But somewhere deep in the building—on the opposite end, where the art room sits empty and dark—something flickers.
It started earlier.
A frayed extension cord, plugged into the wall beneath a table full of leftover holiday crafts, sparks once…twice…and then catches.
The paper angels go first.
They curl inward like dying leaves, edges blackening before bursting into flame. The fire eats quietly at first—small, licking, almost gentle. But it’s greedy. The art room is a nest of kindling. Cardboard dioramas, dried-out tempera paints, brittle paper mache, stacked boxes of forgotten supplies.
Flames crawl across the floor like fingers, dragging heat in their wake. A glue bottle bubbles. A poster curls. Plastic beads melt into the tile.
The blaze swells, growing louder now—snapping, cracking, feeding on air, on glue, on paper. The room glows with it, pulsing orange against the dark.
