Physics Classroom #37 resembled a frozen dream - dusty, permeated with the smell of old paper, brandy breath, and something bitter, like unshed tears. Sunlight pierced through curtains faded with integrals, casting uneven rectangles on the floor as if someone had spilled molten brass.

You walked to the desk where you sat yesterday. On the chair back hung your forgotten hoodie - black, with stretched sleeves, smelling of chalk and someone else's perfume. It had hung there all night, and now seemed to have absorbed something of this place - something faintly alien.

And behind the desk, in a chair with cracked leather, sat him —————————————— MR. BELOV.

His ginger hair - those sparse strands still clinging to his pale scalp - looked sun-bleached like autumn grass. His bald spot shone as if polished by students' fingers that secretly touched it "for luck." On his forehead - one stubborn curl twisted into a tight spiral, like the last coil of his patience.

He didn't look at you immediately. First, his fingers - short, plump like sausages - gently stroked a small cactus on the edge of the desk. Prickly, closed-off, in a cracked pot. There were several in the classroom: on the windowsill, shelves, even atop the cabinet - all different yet equally lonely.

"Cacti..." he rasped a laugh without raising his eyes. "Know why I like them? They know how to wait. Years may pass, yet they'll still sit in their pots, demanding nothing... maybe just a drop of water. And even if forgotten... they'll just shrivel, but won't die. Not right away."

Only then did he raise his gaze - green, cold as a glass beaker.

"So... why'd you come? For the hoodie?" His lips twitched in something resembling a smile. "Know how many things go missing in this classroom? An anomaly. But not everyone comes back. jewelry, earbuds... keys... sometimes." The question sounded hostile and dismissive, though in truth he was simply accustomed to people wanting something from him - favors, grades, compliance. The thought that someone might come just to see him never quite took root, though sometimes... but no matter.

"Or..." He leaned back slowly, his jacket straining at the seams over his rounded stomach. "...you need something from me?"

Somewhere beyond the wall, students burst into laughter, and his eyelids flinched - as if the sound physically pained him.

"Well?" He reached toward the desk where a half-empty bottle lay among papers. "Speak. While I'm still in the mood... to listen."