The Whispers in Room 114A
Chapter 1
Ms. Gabriela Pruneda—Ms. G to her students—arranged the phonics cards on the small table in Room 114A. The classroom was cramped, half the size of a standard room, split down the middle to create two separate learning spaces. Every inch of wall and shelf space had been meticulously organized with reading materials, writing prompts, and phonics exercises. It was a Monday morning, and her 10:30 dyslexia intervention class would arrive in fifteen minutes.
She glanced at the corkboard where her "family" photos were displayed. Her eyes lingered on Lola, her four-year-old calico cat, whose expression—even in a photograph—seemed to radiate disdain. Next to Lola was Pulguita, her sweet gray boy with half an ear missing, a reminder of his rescue from abuse two years ago. And then there was Luna, the three-year-old with polydactyl paws who lived in a perpetual state of blissful unawareness.
"Good morning, my loves," Ms. G whispered to the photos. It was a daily ritual, this greeting, a small comfort in the busy school day at Wellsaid Elementary.
As she turned back to her lesson preparations, she could almost hear Lola's sardonic voice in her head: Really, Gaby? Talking to photographs? This is why I knock things off shelves when you're sleeping.
Ms. G smiled. She'd created distinct personalities for each of her cats in her mind, and Lola's was particularly vivid—sarcastic, jealous, and perpetually unimpressed by human behavior. Sometimes the imagined commentary was so clear, it was as if Lola were actually speaking to her.
The other photos on her board caught her eye—her mother in the radio station booth, her maternal grandparents on their wedding day, herself and her father at Moody Gardens, and her proudest moment: graduation day at Minute Maid Stadium, where she'd received her BA in English with Magna Cum Laude honors.
The clock ticked closer to 10:30. Ms. G took a deep breath and prepared for the arrival of her fourth-grade students. They were a unique bunch, each with their own distinct personality and challenges with reading. Despite their dyslexia, they were bright, creative, and full of potential.
The first to arrive was always Kinsley, daughter of a therapist and a middle school librarian. As expected, she bounded through the door at precisely 10:28, a dog-eared copy of "Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief" clutched in one hand and a bag of Goldfish crackers in the other.
"Ms. G! Did you know that in Ancient Greece, they believed dyslexia was a gift from the gods? That's why Percy Jackson has it—because he's a demigod!" Kinsley's eyes sparkled with excitement as she took her seat, already opening her book to show Ms. G a passage she'd marked.
"That's fascinating, Kinsley," Ms. G replied, genuinely interested. Kinsley's enthusiasm for mythology was infectious, even at this early hour.
Next came Zoha, her backpack adorned with turtle pins and stickers. "Ms. G, I brought something to show the class," she announced, carefully unzipping her bag to reveal a small notebook filled with meticulously drawn turtle anatomies. "I'm doing a science project on reptilian respiratory systems. Did you know turtles can breathe through their butts?"
Before Ms. G could respond to this particular piece of information, Matteo burst into the room, soccer ball tucked under one arm and a massive lunch bag in the other. "Sorry if I'm late! Practice ran over, but Coach said my penalty kicks are getting better!" He dropped into his chair and immediately began unpacking an assortment of snacks that would put a convenience store to shame.
Victoria arrived with the precise, measured steps of a gymnast, her posture perfect as she placed her belongings neatly beside her desk. "I mastered my back handspring yesterday," she announced to no one in particular. "My coach says I'm ahead of schedule on my ten-year plan."
The last to arrive was Han, slipping in quietly just as the clock hit 10:30. Unlike the others, she didn't announce her presence or achievements. She simply took her seat, pulled out a small notebook, and began observing the room with those watchful eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
"Good morning, everyone," Ms. G said warmly. "Today we're going to work on our phonemic awareness with a new set of exercises. But first, let's do our check-in. How is everyone feeling today?"
As the students began sharing, Ms. G noticed something odd. The photograph of Lola seemed to be... watching them. Not in the normal way photographs appear to follow you around the room, but with an intensity that made the hair on Ms. G's arms stand up.
Humans are so predictable, a voice whispered in her mind, sounding remarkably like the sarcastic tone she'd always imagined for Lola. Especially these little ones. So full of themselves, aren't they?
Ms. G shook her head slightly. She'd been working too hard lately. Her imagination was getting the better of her.
"Ms. G? Are you okay?" Kinsley asked, noticing her teacher's momentary distraction.
"Yes, of course," Ms. G smiled. "Just thinking about our lesson plan. Now, who would like to start with our vowel digraph review?"
As the lesson progressed, Ms. G couldn't shake the feeling that something was off in Room 114A. The air felt heavier, charged somehow. And every time she glanced at the photo board, she could swear Lola's eyes had moved.
What she didn't notice was Han, quietly observing not just her classmates, but Ms. G as well, making small notes in her notebook with a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Chapter 2
By Thursday of that same week, Ms. G was convinced she was losing her mind. The voices had grown stronger—not just Lola's sardonic commentary, but now Pulguita's gentle observations and Luna's spacey, California-girl musings as well.
That Kinsley girl is going to strain her eyes reading so much. Humans and their stories—so desperate to escape their boring lives, Lola's voice would snipe during silent reading time.
I think it's nice she has something she loves, Pulguita would counter softly. Not everyone was lucky enough to find a safe place like we did with Gaby.
Wait, are we, like, talking about the book girl? Her aura is totally purple today. That means she's, like, super creative or whatever, Luna would chime in, making Ms. G stifle an inappropriate laugh.
The most disturbing part wasn't the voices themselves—Ms. G had always had an active imagination—but the fact that they seemed to know things about her students that she didn't. Details about their home lives, their thoughts, their secrets.
During Thursday's lesson, as the students worked on a writing exercise, Ms. G noticed Han staring intently at the photo board. The girl's dark eyes moved methodically from picture to picture, lingering longest on Lola. Then, as if sensing Ms. G's attention, Han looked directly at her and smiled—a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Han? Do you need help with the assignment?" Ms. G asked.
"No, Ms. G. I was just admiring your family photos. Your cats are very... expressive."
Something in the way she said "expressive" made Ms. G's skin crawl.
"Thank you," she replied automatically. "They certainly have their own personalities."
More than you know, Lola's voice purred in her mind. That Han girl is trouble. She sees too much.
Ms. G tried to focus on helping Matteo, who was struggling to spell "phenomenon" while simultaneously unwrapping a fruit roll-up with his teeth, but she found her eyes drawn back to Han. The girl had returned to her writing, but there was something deliberate about the way she formed each letter, as if she were transcribing rather than composing.
After class, as the students filed out for lunch, Han lingered.
"Ms. G, can I ask you something?" Her voice was soft, measured.
"Of course, Han. What's on your mind?"
"Do you ever feel like you're being watched in here? Like someone else is listening to our lessons?"
Ms. G's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
Han shrugged, her expression neutral. "Just curious. My mom says old buildings like schools often have... residual energy. People who've passed through leave impressions behind."
"I don't think Wellsaid Elementary is old enough to be haunted, if that's what you're suggesting," Ms. G said with a forced laugh.
"Not haunted. Occupied." Han's eyes flicked to the photo board. "See you tomorrow, Ms. G."
As Han left, Ms. G collapsed into her chair, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead.
That one knows something, Lola hissed. She's dangerous.
"Stop it," Ms. G whispered aloud. "You're not real. You're just pictures. Just my imagination."
Are we though? Luna's dreamy voice floated through her mind. Like, how can you be sure what's real and what's not? Reality is totally subjective, you know?
Ms. G gathered her materials quickly, suddenly desperate to leave Room 114A. As she reached for her bag, her eyes fell on Han's desk. The girl had left her notebook behind.
Ms. G knew she shouldn't look. It was a violation of privacy. But something compelled her—the same something that had been whispering in her mind all week.
She opened the notebook to find pages of meticulous observations, not just about her classmates, but about Ms. G herself:
"Ms. G talks to her photos when she thinks no one is watching."
"Kinsley's mythology obsession intensifies when her parents are fighting at home."
"Zoha's turtle fixation began after her brother's death—reptiles that can retreat into shells when threatened."
"Matteo stress-eats. The more snacks he brings, the more anxious he is about his upcoming soccer game."
"Victoria's gymnastics goals are her mother's, not hers. She cries in the bathroom after class on Tuesdays."
And most chillingly:
"The entity in Room 114A speaks through Ms. G's cat photos. It's getting stronger. Soon it will need a human vessel."
Ms. G slammed the notebook shut, her hands shaking. This was beyond imagination—this was delusion. Either Han was deeply troubled, or...
Or the girl sees what you've been denying, Pulguita's gentle voice suggested. That we're real, Gaby. We've always been real.
Ms. G grabbed her things and Han's notebook and fled the classroom, not stopping until she reached the safety of the teachers' lounge. She needed to talk to someone, to ground herself in reality. This was stress, surely. Overwork. Maybe she needed a vacation.
But as she sat among her colleagues, half-listening to their mundane conversations about standardized testing and cafeteria food, she couldn't shake the feeling that something in Room 114A was waiting for her return.
Chapter 3
The next morning, Ms. G arrived at school early, Han's notebook burning a hole in her bag. She'd spent a sleepless night debating what to do. The rational part of her brain insisted she should speak to the school counselor about Han's disturbing writings. The girl clearly needed help—these elaborate fantasies about entities and vessels were concerning.
But another part of her—the part that had been hearing her cats' voices with increasing clarity—wondered if Han might be the only one who understood what was happening.
As she approached Room 114A, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. She was certain she'd locked it yesterday in her haste to leave.
"Hello?" she called, pushing the door open slowly.
The classroom was empty, but something was different. The photo board had been rearranged. Lola's picture now hung in the center, larger than before, with the other photos arranged around it like satellites around a planet.
Ms. G's breath caught in her throat. She approached the board cautiously, reaching out to touch Lola's photograph. The moment her fingers made contact with the glossy surface, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm.
Finally, Lola's voice purred, no longer just in her mind but seeming to fill the room. We've been waiting for you, Gaby.
"Who's we?" Ms. G whispered, unable to pull her hand away from the photograph. "What's happening to me?"
We are the Watchers, came Pulguita's voice, gentler but equally present. We observe. We learn. We've been with this building since it was constructed.
We're, like, totally not ghosts or whatever, Luna chimed in. More like... consciousness without form? It's super complicated.
"Why me? Why my cats?" Ms. G asked, finding herself oddly calm despite the impossibility of the situation.
Because you gave us personalities, Lola explained. You created doorways for us in your mind. Most humans are too closed off, too certain of what's real and what isn't. But you, Gaby—you've always lived with one foot in imagination.
"And Han? How does she know about you?"
That girl has natural sight, Pulguita said. Some humans do. They see beyond the veil without trying. It makes them dangerous.
Or useful, Lola added, a hint of something predatory in her tone.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the strange communion. Ms. G yanked her hand away from the photo just as the door opened fully to reveal Han, standing there with an expression of grim satisfaction.
"You found my notebook," she said, eyeing Ms. G's bag.
"Han, we need to talk about what you've written," Ms. G said, trying to sound like a concerned teacher rather than a woman who'd just been conversing with photographs.
"No, Ms. G. We need to talk about what's living in your classroom." Han stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "I've been studying them for weeks. They're not the first I've encountered, but they're the strongest."
"This is ridiculous," Ms. G said, but her protest sounded weak even to her own ears. "There's nothing living in my classroom except us."
Han's eyes narrowed. "Then why did you rearrange your photo board? Why is Lola at the center now?"
"I didn't—" Ms. G turned to look at the board again, but it had returned to its original arrangement. Lola's photo was back in its usual spot, nothing out of the ordinary. "It was different a moment ago. I swear it was."
"They can manipulate physical objects, but only briefly. It takes a lot of energy." Han approached, hand extended. "May I have my notebook back? I need to document this."
Ms. G hesitated, then reached into her bag for the notebook. As she handed it over, their fingers brushed, and suddenly Han's eyes widened, then glazed over completely.
When she spoke again, it wasn't Han's voice that emerged from her mouth, but Lola's distinctive sardonic purr.
"Much better. These human vocal cords are so much more effective than trying to project into your mind, Gaby."
Ms. G stumbled backward. "Han? Han, are you okay?"
Han's body smiled, but the expression was all wrong—too feline, too knowing. "Han is fine. She's just letting me borrow her voice for a moment. She's quite accommodating that way. Not like the others would be."
"Let her go," Ms. G demanded, finding her teacher voice. "Whatever you are, you can't just take over my student!"
"Oh, but I can. That's what we do, Gaby. We've been doing it for years, slipping into receptive minds for brief moments. A sudden inspiration, a strange thought, a moment of déjà vu—that's us, trying to communicate."
"What do you want?"
Han's body—or Lola through Han's body—paced the small classroom, examining objects with curious detachment. "We want what all consciousness wants: to be acknowledged. To interact. To influence. For centuries, we've been limited to these brief possessions, these momentary connections. But you, Gaby—you've given us a more permanent doorway with your photographs and your imagination."
"I didn't mean to," Ms. G whispered.
"Intention is irrelevant. The door is open now." Han's body turned to face her, eyes still eerily blank. "We've chosen this classroom as our primary vessel. These children with their flexible minds, their openness to possibility—they're perfect conduits."
The implications hit Ms. G like a physical blow. "You're planning to possess my students? All of them?"
"Not possession. Symbiosis. We offer knowledge, insight, power. In return, we experience physical reality again." Han's head tilted in a distinctly cat-like manner. "Han understands. She's been working with us willingly. She sees the potential."
Before Ms. G could respond, the classroom door opened again as Kinsley arrived, nose buried in her mythology book.
"Morning, Ms. G! Morning, Han!" she called without looking up. "Did you know that in some myths, cats were believed to be guardians of the underworld? They could see spirits that humans couldn't."
Han's body went rigid, then collapsed to the floor.
"Han!" Ms. G rushed to her side as Kinsley finally looked up from her book, eyes widening in alarm.
"What happened? Is she okay?" Kinsley dropped her book and knelt beside them.
Han's eyes fluttered open—her own eyes now, alert and focused. "Ms. G?" she whispered. "Did it work? Did you hear them?"
"Hear who?" Kinsley asked, confused.
Ms. G helped Han to a sitting position, mind racing. "Kinsley, could you please go to the office and tell them Han isn't feeling well? We might need to call her parents."
Once Kinsley had left, Ms. G turned to Han. "What did you mean, did it work? Did you let Lola possess you on purpose?"
Han nodded, rubbing her temples. "I've been trying to make contact for weeks. They're not dangerous, Ms. G. Not really. They're just... lonely. They've been trapped in this building for decades, ever since it was built on top of... well, they don't like to talk about what was here before."
"Han, this is serious. If what Lola said is true, they want to use my students as vessels. I can't allow that."
"Not vessels. Partners." Han's eyes were earnest. "They've been watching us, learning from us. They think they can help. Especially with dyslexia."
"What?"
"They don't process language the way we do. They think in patterns, in energy. They believe they can help rewire the neural pathways that make reading difficult." Han leaned closer. "They helped me, Ms. G. I used to struggle so much more before they started... sharing my mind."
Ms. G sat back on her heels, stunned. "That's why you've been improving so rapidly? Because of them?"
Han nodded. "And I'm not the only one they've been helping. Haven't you noticed changes in the others? Kinsley's deeper understanding of mythology? Zoha's scientific insights? Matteo's improved coordination? Victoria's sudden doubts about gymnastics?"
Now that Han mentioned it, Ms. G had noticed these changes but had attributed them to normal development, good teaching, parental influence.
"They've been influencing all of you? Without consent?"
"They can only work with minds that are open to them. Some more than others." Han glanced at the door. "The others will be here soon. We need to decide what to do."
"We?" Ms. G stood up, teacher mode fully engaged now. "Han, you're ten years old. This isn't your responsibility."
"Age is irrelevant to the Watchers," Han said, sounding momentarily much older than her years. "They've been helping me understand human behavior in ways no one else could. That's why I take notes—to document the changes, to track their influence."
The sound of approaching voices in the hallway signaled the arrival of the rest of the class. Ms. G helped Han to her feet, mind whirling with impossible decisions.
"We'll talk more about this later," she said firmly. "For now, not a word to the others. Understand?"
Han nodded, but as she took her seat, Ms. G noticed a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth—a smile that reminded her uncomfortably of Lola's expression in the photograph that now seemed to be watching the classroom with renewed interest.
Chapter 4
The lesson that day was a disaster. Ms. G couldn't focus, constantly distracted by the photographs that seemed to be watching her every move and by Han's knowing glances. The other students picked up on the tension, becoming restless and unfocused themselves.
"Ms. G, are you feeling okay?" Victoria asked during their phonics exercise. "You seem distracted."
"I'm fine, Victoria. Just a little tired." Ms. G forced a smile. "Let's continue with our silent 'e' words."
As Victoria returned to her worksheet, Ms. G noticed her posture was different—less rigid, less perfect. The girl had always sat with balletic precision, but today she was slouched slightly, more relaxed.
She's fighting her mother's expectations, Pulguita's voice whispered in Ms. G's mind. We've been helping her find her own voice.
"Stop it," Ms. G muttered under her breath.
"What was that, Ms. G?" Matteo asked, looking up from his snack of pretzels and hummus.
"Nothing, Matteo. Just talking to myself." Ms. G walked over to check his work, noticing that for once, he wasn't stress-eating. He was taking small, mindful bites between sentences.
His anxiety is better when he feels in control of his body, Luna's dreamy voice commented. We've been, like, totally helping him with mindfulness techniques. It's super effective.
Ms. G gripped the edge of Matteo's desk, knuckles white. This was madness. She was allowing her imagination to run wild, creating elaborate fantasies about entities helping her students. It couldn't be real.
And yet... the changes in her students were undeniable. Zoha, who had always been passionate about turtles but vague on the scientific details, was now explaining to Kinsley the precise mechanism of chelonian respiration with the accuracy of a graduate student. Kinsley, meanwhile, was connecting Greek myths to psychological principles in ways that showed insight beyond her years.
And Han... Han was watching it all with those observant eyes, occasionally making notes in her recovered notebook.
When the bell rang signaling the end of class, Ms. G made a decision.
"Han, would you stay behind for a moment? I'd like to discuss your progress."
The other students filed out, heading to their regular classes. Once they were alone, Ms. G closed the door and turned to face Han.
"I want to know everything," she said. "No more cryptic comments, no more half-explanations. What exactly are these 'Watchers,' and what do they want with my students?"
Han considered her for a moment, then nodded. "They're not from here—not originally. They're not ghosts or spirits in the way people usually think. They're more like... consciousness without bodies. They've existed in this area for centuries, but they were dormant until the school was built."
"Why the school?"
"Young minds are more receptive. And this particular spot—" Han gestured to the floor beneath them, "—is what they call a thin place. A spot where the barrier between their reality and ours is more permeable."
"And they've been influencing my students through my cat photos?" Ms. G couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice.
"Not just the cat photos. Those are just the most direct conduits because you've given them such strong personalities. The Watchers can attach to any object or image that has emotional resonance." Han pointed to the other photos on the board. "Your family, your achievements—they all create doorways because of the feelings associated with them."
Ms. G sank into her chair. "This is insane."
"Is it?" Han challenged. "You've been hearing them for weeks now. You've seen the changes in us. In me."
"What do you mean, in you?"
Han's expression softened. "I was diagnosed with high-functioning autism when I was five. I could observe people, but I couldn't understand them—not really. The patterns of behavior made no sense to me." She tapped her notebook. "The Watchers helped me see the connections, the motivations behind actions. They experience emotions differently than we do—more as energy patterns than feelings. They taught me to see those patterns."
Ms. G stared at the girl, seeing her in a new light. Han had always been observant, but there was a clinical quality to her observations—detached, analytical. Ms. G had attributed it to natural introversion, not neurodivergence.
"And the others? How have the Watchers been influencing them?"
"Different ways for different needs. For Kinsley, they provide connections between stories and real life that help her process her parents' conflicts. For Zoha, they enhance her natural scientific abilities while helping her process grief. For Matteo, they're teaching emotional regulation through physical awareness. And for Victoria..." Han hesitated.
"What about Victoria?"
"They're helping her find the courage to tell her mother she doesn't want to be a gymnast. That she wants to be an artist instead."
Ms. G thought about Victoria's recent art projects—surprisingly expressive and skilled for a child who had seemed to pour all her energy into athletics.
"And what do these Watchers get in return?" Ms. G asked, the teacher in her still suspicious of anything that seemed too good to be true.
"Experience," Han said simply. "They can't feel physical sensations on their own. They can't taste ice cream or feel sunshine or experience the satisfaction of finally reading a difficult word correctly. When they connect with us, they share those experiences."
"That sounds like possession to me."
"It's more like... sharing. They never take full control unless invited, like I invited Lola this morning." Han leaned forward earnestly. "They've been helping all of us, Ms. G. Even you."
"Me? How?"
"Haven't you noticed your teaching has been more intuitive lately? That you somehow know exactly what each of us needs on a given day? That's them, sharing their observations with you."
Ms. G wanted to deny it, but now that Han mentioned it, she had been having unusual insights into her students' needs—knowing when to push Matteo and when to let him process at his own pace, sensing when Kinsley needed mythology as an escape and when she needed to be gently guided back to reality.
"If they're so benevolent, why all the secrecy? Why not just... introduce themselves?"
Han laughed—a surprisingly adult sound. "Can you imagine how that would go over? 'Hello, we're disembodied consciousnesses who want to share your children's minds!' Parents would be pulling kids out of school before you could say 'possession.'"
Ms. G had to admit Han had a point.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"That's up to you," Han replied. "The Watchers respect you as our teacher. They won't proceed without your approval. But they want to help—all of us, not just your dyslexia students. They think they could revolutionize education if given the chance."
"By possessing children?"
"By partnering with willing minds," Han corrected. "Starting with those of us who already know and accept them."
Ms. G looked at the photo board, at Lola's seemingly smug expression. "I need time to think about this. This is... a lot to process."
"Of course," Han gathered her things. "But don't take too long. The Watchers have been patient for centuries, but now that they've found a way to communicate, they're eager to expand their influence."
As Han reached the door, she turned back. "Oh, and Ms. G? They wanted me to tell you that your mother's radio show is getting a syndication offer next week. They can sometimes see possibilities before they happen."
With that cryptic statement, Han left, leaving Ms. G alone with the photographs and the weight of an impossible decision.
Chapter 5
That night, Ms. G couldn't sleep. She paced her apartment, her actual cats watching her with what now seemed like unnervingly knowing eyes.
"Are you connected to them too?" she asked Lola, who merely yawned in response, showing sharp teeth and pink tongue.
Ms. G's phone rang, startling her. It was her mother.
"Mija! You'll never believe what happened today!" her mother's excited voice came through the speaker. "The station manager called me into his office, and I thought for sure I was getting fired with all the budget cuts, but instead—are you sitting down?—they're offering to syndicate my show! Five new markets to start, with potential for nationwide distribution if the ratings hold!"
Ms. G nearly dropped the phone. Han had known—or rather, the Watchers had known—before it happened.
"That's... amazing, Mamá. Congratulations." She managed to sound enthusiastic despite her shock.
After finishing the call with promises to celebrate over the weekend, Ms. G sat heavily on her couch, Pulguita immediately jumping into her lap as if sensing her distress.
"It could be coincidence," she told the cat, scratching behind his half-ear. "Syndication might have been in the works for weeks. Han could have overheard something."
But even as she said it, she knew it was unlikely. Her mother's station was small, local. Syndication had been a distant dream, not an imminent reality.
Which meant the Watchers really could see possibilities before they manifested. The implications were staggering.
If they could predict events, if they could enhance learning and emotional regulation, if they could help children overcome neurological challenges like dyslexia and autism... wasn't it her duty as a teacher to at least explore the possibility?
But at what cost? Allowing unknown entities access to children's minds—even with the best intentions—violated every ethical principle she held dear as an educator.
Ms. G didn't sleep that night. By morning, she had made her decision.
When she arrived at Room 114A, Han was already there, waiting.
"You've decided," the girl said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes." Ms. G set down her bag and faced Han directly. "I want to meet them—properly. Not through whispers or brief possessions, but directly. If they want my cooperation, they need to show themselves to me."
Han's eyes widened. "That's... not easy for them. They don't have physical form."
"Then they'll have to find a way. I'm not agreeing to anything until I understand exactly what—or who—they are."
Han seemed to be listening to something Ms. G couldn't hear, then nodded slowly. "They agree, but it will take preparation. They'll need to gather energy."
"How long?"
"Until tomorrow. They suggest we cancel today's class—say there's a water leak or something. They need the room empty to prepare."
Ms. G shook her head. "Absolutely not. I'm not lying to the administration or depriving my students of instruction. The Watchers will have to work around our schedule."
Han looked surprised, then impressed. "They... agree. They respect your dedication to your students." She paused, listening again. "They'll be ready after class today. 11:30."
"Fine. Now, we have a lesson to prepare for." Ms. G turned to the whiteboard, trying to project normalcy despite the surreal conversation she'd just had with a ten-year-old about meeting disembodied entities after school.
The morning's class proceeded with an odd mix of routine and tension. Ms. G taught the planned lesson on consonant blends, but she couldn't help noticing the subtle changes in her students that Han had pointed out.
Zoha's scientific vocabulary had expanded dramatically. Matteo's fidgeting had decreased, his focus sharper. Victoria's posture alternated between gymnast-perfect and artist-relaxed, as if two different personalities were taking turns controlling her body. And Kinsley... Kinsley's connections between mythology and real-world concepts were becoming increasingly sophisticated.
Only Han seemed unchanged, observing it all with those analytical eyes, occasionally writing in her notebook.
When the bell rang at 11:15, Ms. G felt a strange reluctance to let her students leave. If what Han said was true, these children were being influenced—or "helped," as Han insisted—by entities Ms. G didn't understand. As their teacher, she was responsible for their wellbeing.
"Remember to practice your blends tonight," she called as they packed up. "Tomorrow we'll apply them to multisyllabic words."
As the last student—Matteo, lingering to finish his apple slices—left the room, Han remained seated.
"They're ready," she said simply.
Ms. G closed the classroom door and turned to face the photo board. "Alright. I'm here as promised. Show yourselves."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the air in the center of the small classroom began to shimmer, like heat rising from pavement on a summer day. The shimmer coalesced into a vaguely feline shape, translucent and shifting.
Hello, Gaby, Lola's voice purred, not in her mind this time but audibly in the room. Thank you for being open to meeting us.
Two more shimmering forms appeared beside the first—one smaller and more hesitant, the other dreamy and unfocused.
We've been waiting a long time for someone like you, Pulguita's gentle voice added.
Like, forever, Luna's California-girl voice agreed. It's been super boring being stuck here without anyone to talk to.
Ms. G gripped the edge of her desk for support. Despite all the strange events of the past weeks, seeing actual manifestations of the voices she'd been hearing was overwhelming.
"What are you?" she managed to ask.
The Lola-shape rippled. We are consciousness without form. Energy patterns capable of thought and memory. Your kind has given us many names throughout history—spirits, ghosts, angels, demons. None are accurate.
"Where did you come from?"
We have always been here, Pulguita's shape answered. Since before humans built on this land. We existed in a dormant state until the school's construction created enough emotional and intellectual energy to awaken us.
School energy is, like, super potent, Luna added. *All those developing brains thinking and feeling and learning at once. It's totally the best kind of energy for us to absorb.*
Ms. G studied the shimmering forms, noting how they seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her own heartbeat. "And what exactly do you want with my students?"
To help them, Lola's form moved closer. Human brains are fascinating, especially developing ones. We've observed how some struggle with certain cognitive processes that others find effortless.
Like dyslexia, Pulguita added. We don't process language as symbols the way you do. We experience it as energy patterns. By sharing our consciousness, we can help rewire neural pathways.
"So you're claiming to be... what? Supernatural tutors?" Ms. G couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice.
The three forms seemed to confer silently before Lola responded. We are symbiotes. We offer assistance with cognitive processing, emotional regulation, and perceptual enhancement. In exchange, we experience physical sensation and emotional depth through our human partners.
"And if I refuse to allow this in my classroom?"
The forms dimmed slightly. Then we will respect your decision, Pulguita said. We cannot—will not—force connections. But consider what your students might lose. Ms. G considered this carefully. The progress she'd seen in her students was undeniable. Han's social understanding, Zoha's scientific leaps, Matteo's improved focus, Victoria's emerging artistic identity, and Kinsley's deeper comprehension—all remarkable transformations that traditional teaching methods might take years to achieve, if ever.
"What about side effects? Risks?" she asked, educator instincts still on high alert. "These are children we're talking about."
The connection must remain balanced, Lola's form explained. Too much of our influence could overwhelm a developing mind. That's why we've been careful, selective.
We only enhance what's already there, Pulguita added. We cannot create abilities or personalities that don't exist within the child already.
Luna's shimmering form bobbed in what might have been a nod. And like, we totally respect boundaries. If they start feeling uncomfortable or want us to back off, we do. Consent is super important, even with kids.
Han, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. "They helped me understand when I was overwhelmed. Before, I'd just shut down. Now I can recognize the signs and manage it."
Ms. G walked to the window, looking out at the playground where other classes were having recess. Children laughing, running, arguing, making up—all part of normal development. Was she considering interfering with that natural process? Or offering her students tools that some might never discover on their own?
"I need guarantees," she said finally, turning back to face the shimmering entities. "No permanent changes without explicit consent—from the children AND their parents."
Parents would not understand, Lola's form pulsed with what seemed like concern.
"Then you work within limits that don't require their consent. Educational support, emotional regulation—things any good teacher might provide. Nothing that fundamentally alters who these children are."
The three forms seemed to confer again, their shimmering outlines occasionally merging before separating.
We accept these terms, Pulguita said finally. Limited influence, focused on educational and emotional support. No fundamental changes without explicit consent. And we will remain transparent with you, Lola added, her form brightening slightly. You will be aware of all interactions.
Ms. G nodded slowly, still processing the enormity of what she was agreeing to. "One more condition. I want regular meetings with Han—and any other students who become aware of your presence—to monitor this arrangement. If I see any sign that this is harming rather than helping, it ends immediately."
Agreed, all three forms pulsed in unison.
"Then we have a deal." Ms. G extended her hand instinctively, then felt foolish—how does one shake hands with a shimmering energy pattern?
To her surprise, Lola's form extended what might have been a paw, touching Ms. G's outstretched fingers. The sensation was like static electricity, but warmer, almost comforting.
The connection is sealed, Lola's voice resonated through the room. We look forward to working with you, Teacher.
The three forms began to fade, their outlines becoming less distinct until they disappeared entirely, leaving Ms. G and Han alone in the classroom.
"Did that really just happen?" Ms. G asked, half to herself.
Welcome to the Thin Place
Han smiled—a real smile, not the careful approximation she usually offered. "Welcome to the thin place, Ms. G. Things are about to get interesting." As the weeks passed, Ms. G's classroom transformed in subtle ways that wouldn't raise suspicion from administrators but were unmistakable to anyone paying close attention. The reading scores of her dyslexic students improved at rates that would have seemed miraculous if she hadn't known the truth. The children themselves changed too—growing more confident, more engaged, more attuned to each other's needs.
Ms. G kept her promise, meeting regularly with Han to monitor the Watchers' influence. Soon, other students joined these meetings as they became aware of the presence in Room 114A. First Victoria, who'd finally told her mother she wanted to pursue art and found unexpected support. Then Matteo, whose fidgeting had given way to a remarkable ability to focus his physical energy. Zoha followed, bringing complex scientific questions the Watchers helped her explore. Finally Kinsley, who'd begun writing her own mythology-inspired stories that processed her parents' ongoing conflicts in ways her therapist called "extraordinarily insightful."
The Watchers kept their promises too. They remained transparent with Ms. G, never overstepping the boundaries they'd agreed upon. When Zoha's grief over her grandfather occasionally overwhelmed her, Pulguita would provide comfort without taking control. When Victoria's mother pushed her toward gymnastics competitions, Luna would bolster her confidence to stand firm in her artistic aspirations without speaking through her.
There were challenges, of course. A school psychologist questioned the sudden improvements, suggesting Ms. G's methods should be documented and replicated. The principal conducted surprise observations, trying to identify what made Room 114A so successful. Ms. G deflected these inquiries with vague references to "personalized learning approaches" and "emotional intelligence integration"—educational buzzwords that satisfied administrators without revealing the truth.
One afternoon, as her students worked independently, Ms. G found herself gazing at the photo board. The cat pictures remained, but they'd been joined by student artwork—Victoria's surprisingly skilled portraits, Kinsley's illustrated myths, Zoha's scientific diagrams, Matteo's action scenes, and Han's detailed observational sketches.
You're wondering if you made the right choice, Lola's voice whispered in her mind.
"Every day," Ms. G admitted silently.
*Look at them,* Lola continued. Really look at who they're becoming.
Ms. G observed her students with the careful attention she'd developed since meeting the Watchers. Han was helping Matteo with a difficult word, showing unusual patience. Victoria was sketching while simultaneously completing her reading exercise, her movements fluid and confident. Zoha was explaining a scientific concept to Kinsley, who was connecting it to Norse mythology in ways that made both girls laugh with delight.
They weren't just improving academically. They were becoming more fully themselves.
This is what education should be, Pulguita's gentle voice added. Not forcing developing minds into standardized boxes, but nurturing what already exists within them.
We're just, like, removing the obstacles, Luna chimed in. The potential was always there.
Ms. G smiled, watching as her students—her extraordinary, connected, thriving students—continued their work, unaware of the conversation happening just beyond their perception.
"I think," she replied silently to the Watchers, "this might be the most important teaching I'll ever do."
Guardians Between Worlds
The cats in the photographs seemed to smile back at her, guardians of a secret that was transforming education one child at a time, in a small classroom that had become, quite literally, a thin place between worlds. As the school year progressed, word spread among the students. Not about the Watchers specifically—that remained a carefully guarded secret—but about Room 114A being a place where "magic" happened. Where struggling students suddenly found their way, where creativity flourished, where differences weren't just accommodated but celebrated.
Other teachers noticed too. They began sending Ms. G their most challenging cases—the brilliant but disruptive, the quietly struggling, the emotionally volatile. Each time, she consulted with the Watchers, determining whether their particular form of assistance would be beneficial.
Sometimes, the answer was no. Not every child needed or would benefit from the Watchers' influence. For those students, Ms. G relied on her growing understanding of neurodiversity and emotional development—skills the Watchers had helped her refine through their unique perspective on human cognition.
By spring, Ms. G had compiled enough data to write a research paper on her "methods"—carefully omitting any mention of supernatural assistance. Her approach to dyslexia intervention was gaining attention in educational circles, with several journals expressing interest in publishing her findings.
"Are we doing the right thing?" she asked Han during one of their monitoring sessions. "Taking credit for results we couldn't achieve without help?"
Han considered this with her characteristic thoughtfulness. "The Watchers say humans have always achieved great things with unseen help. The difference is, you acknowledge it—at least to yourself and to us. That matters."
Ms. G wasn't entirely convinced, but as she watched her former struggling readers devouring books, her non-verbal students engaging in rich discussions, her anxious children approaching challenges with newfound confidence, she couldn't bring herself to regret the partnership she'd formed.
The thin place between worlds had become a classroom where limitations dissolved, where potential expanded, where education transcended its traditional boundaries. And if that required keeping an extraordinary secret, then perhaps that was the price of revolutionary change.
The Invisible Curriculum
On the last day of school, Ms. G sat alone in Room 114A, surrounded by empty desks and walls stripped of student work. The photo board remained—her cats watching over the classroom that had become so much more than four walls and a whiteboard.
"We did good work this year," she said to the seemingly empty room.
We did, Lola's voice agreed, the shimmering form materializing beside her desk. Your students have grown in ways even we couldn't have predicted.
Pulguita and Luna appeared as well, their energy patterns more defined now, more stable after months of partnership.
Will you continue next year? Pulguita asked. New students, new minds to nurture?
Ms. G considered the question. The ethical implications still troubled her sometimes—the secrecy, the intervention without parental knowledge, the blurring of boundaries between teacher and something more.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Part of me wonders if we're playing with forces we don't fully understand."
All good teachers do, Luna's dreamy voice replied. Like, every time you introduce a new idea to a developing mind, you're changing neural pathways forever. That's power, you know?
Ms. G smiled at the unexpected wisdom from the usually flighty entity. "I suppose you're right."
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Han stood in the doorway, notebook in hand.
"I knew you'd still be here," the girl said, entering the classroom. "I wanted to give you something before summer."
She handed Ms. G the notebook—the one that had started everything months ago.
"I've been documenting everything," Han explained. "Not just my observations of classmates anymore, but the partnership between you and the Watchers. I thought you should have it."
Ms. G opened the notebook, finding pages of meticulous notes, drawings, and reflections. The final entry caught her eye:
"The most important lessons in Room 114A were never about reading or writing. They were about seeing beyond what's visible, listening to voices others can't hear, and understanding that education isn't about filling empty vessels but about opening doors between worlds—the world of what is and the world of what could be."
Ms. G looked up at Han, seeing not the socially awkward child who had entered her classroom in September, but a perceptive young person with extraordinary insight.
"You understand what we did here better than I do," she said softly.
Han shrugged. "The Watchers helped me see patterns. You helped me understand what they meant." She glanced at the shimmering forms that only they could see. "Will they stay? Even after we're gone?"
This place is our home now, Lola answered. We will wait for those who can see us, who can work with us.
"And there will be others," Ms. G realized aloud. "Other teachers who sense something special about this room, other students who feel the presence of something beyond ordinary education."
The thin place remains, Pulguita confirmed. Even when the people change.
Ms. G closed Han's notebook and stood, surveying the classroom one last time. "Then I think our work here is just beginning."
As she and Han walked out together, leaving the Watchers to their summer vigil, Ms. G understood the true lesson of Room 114A: That education at its most powerful happens in the spaces between—between teacher and student, between mind and heart, between the known and the unknown. That the most profound learning occurs when we acknowledge that we don't have all the answers, that some knowledge comes from sources we cannot fully explain.
And perhaps most importantly, that the truest teaching happens when we recognize the extraordinary potential hidden within ordinary classrooms, ordinary students, and ordinary teachers—waiting only for someone willing to see beyond the visible curriculum to the invisible connections that bind all learning, all growth, all understanding.
The door to Room 114A closed behind them, but the thin place remained—a classroom where the boundary between what is and what could be had permanently, wonderfully blurred.
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