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“Walter, your new teacher is here,” she announces.

The man behind the desk immediately stands and walks around to greet us.

“You must be Miss Morgan.” He holds out his hand. “Walter Derek, principal here at Hartwell Elementary. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“It’s lovely to meet you too.” I shake his hand. “And Blair is fine.”

“Blair it is,” Walter replies warmly.

He has white hair, a mustache to match and deep lines around his eyes that make me think he’s spent far more of his life smiling than frowning. Family photographs cover one corner of his desk, mixed between handmade cards and drawings from students.

I like him immediately.

Jesus, is everyone in this town kind?

Surely this is too good to be true.

“I’m so excited to be here,” I tell him. “You have a beautiful school.”

“It wouldn’t be what it is without the people inside it,” Walter replies. “Patty keeps us organized, the teachers keep us running and the children keep us humble.”

“Speak for yourself,” Patty says from the doorway. “The children terrify me.”

Walter chuckles. “Let me show you around before they arrive.”

He walks me through the main building, pointing out the gymnasium where assemblies are held, the staff-room, the library and the doors leading toward the playground and athletic field.

Every hallway is covered in evidence that children belong here. Painted hand prints. Crooked paper animals. Stories written in handwriting that becomes increasingly difficult to understand with every sentence.

It feels warm.

Lived in.

Walter eventually stops outside a classroom near the end of the first-grade hallway.

“And this,” he says, pushing open the door, “is yours.”

My breath catches.

The classroom is beautiful.

Morning sunlight pours through the windows overlooking the school grounds, warming the wooden floor and the rows of child-sized desks. There’s a reading corner beside the window, shelves filled with picture books and a faded rug covered in brightly colored letters.

Mrs. Ranford left most of the classroom intact, but there are enough empty spaces for me to make it my own.

My desk.

My whiteboard.

My students’ names waiting neatly inside the attendance folder.

Walter places a thick binder beside it.

“Mrs. Ranford left detailed notes about the class,” he explains. “Routines, learning plans and anything she thought would help with the transition.”

“She really thought of everything,” I say, running my hand over the binder.

“She cares deeply about these children,” Walter tells me. “Leaving wasn’t easy for her.”