Mr. Advani had taught mathematics at the school for thirty-one years, and in that time he had never once raised his voice. New teachers found this unnerving. When a student mocked another in his classroom, he did not scold; he simply stopped speaking and looked at the offender until the silence itself became a punishment sharper than any words. The boys called it 'the Advani stare,' and traded warnings about it in the corridors. On his last day, the headmaster arranged a small ceremony. There were speeches, a cake, a clock in a velvet box. Mr. Advani thanked everyone in three sentences and sat down. Later, a young colleague found him alone in the emptied classroom, running his hand along the chalk tray, gathering the stubs of chalk into his palm. 'Keepsakes?' she asked, smiling. He looked at the little pile of white nubs as though he had not noticed them until then. 'No,' he said. 'Habit. I always cleared the tray before I left.' He tipped the chalk into the bin, brushed his hands, and switched off the light on his way out without looking back.