The chairs whine in protest, skittering along the tile floor. Air conditioner whirs, projector hums, dry erase markers squeak, and pencils tap.

The room sings of education, both missteps and triumphs. It serenades of assessments, adulation, advancement, and are-you-kidding-me’s. It yammers on about books, bravery, baffling remarks, and nothing broken but personal bests. A classroom of so many varying voices, all coming together for a purpose obscured but never lost.

The door creaks.

“Good morning, Mr. Jaromin.”

The quiet morning is over. The next song begins to play.