Iary copies the same line three times on her wooden desk, her fingers black with chalk. In the paved courtyard, the other children dash off, their laughter fading into the distance. Her desk creaks. "Come play!" calls a voice at the door. Her pencil is already scratching out a fourth line. Her eyes never leave the page.
Days stretch into weeks. On the wooden desk, the pile of exercise sheets grows, edge to edge. Evening settles in. Iary ties a broken pencil to another with a scrap of cloth, her fingers focused. The last light stretches its long shadow across the ochre walls.
The wind slams the door shut. Her pages scatter across the paving stones, tumbling in the cold gust. Iary crouches on the stone, gathering sheet after sheet. M-M-M, she murmurs under her lip, her fingers already black with chalk. The courtyard's silence does not soften.
The teacher lifts the exercise book. "Twenty-two retakes of the same lesson," she reads, her voice calm. The class holds its breath. The rows of desks go quiet. A rustle of pages. Then a total stillness, heavy as chalk dust on the ochre walls.
"TWENTY-TWO?!" Laughter rolls across the rows. One, two, three bursts. Iary's chin drops, tucks in. Then it lifts. "Twenty-three," she says, very softly. On the next page, the twenty-third line is already half done, the pencil barely trembling.
Iary, older now, stands before the same room. The wooden desks are arranged before her. With a steady hand, she writes a letter on the blackboard — no trembling, no erasing. She turns to the little children at the bottom of the room. "Repeat after me."
The room fills with tiny voices: "M-M-M." A hundred mouths, one sound, bouncing off the ochre walls. Her fingers are black with chalk, just like they were at six. On the board, an M. She writes another one just below. Two M's side by side, in the grey dust.
The children flood the paved courtyard, shouting with joy. Iary slides the old pencil, tied with its scrap of cloth, into her pocket, and walks toward the door. Morning light spills over the ochre walls, filling the paving stones with gold. Two M's remain on the board, pale in the dust. She does not look back.
