The Scream of A Thousand Libraries Chapter 18: Chapter 18: João Batista High School.

Read chapter 18 of The Scream of A Thousand Libraries by Susangja on NovelPedia.

POV: HELENA IVYRA. The last few days of vacation flew by, as fast as Senna in Monaco. After returning home, I simply rested for the rest of the vacation, while reading the book I recovered from the library. Although it wasn't particularly exciting, I managed to keep it company during the following days. It was the kind of reading that doesn't leave a mark, but provides comfort. It was this kind of silent company I needed. Something simple, that didn't demand much from me. Something that simply filled the blank spaces of long, lazy days. Then came the first day of my last school year. That morning, I woke up to the alarm clock quietly ringing at 6:30 AM. The soft sound was enough to pull me from my light sleep. It was the first day, and my body seemed to know it even before my mind fully woke up. The classic routine was reactivated, and my muscle memory seemed to recall the old tradition, like a rusty gear being put back into use. I got up slowly, with an almost ceremonial care not to make noise, as my mother was still asleep, and the last thing I wanted was to wake her. The whole house was enveloped in that typical morning silence, broken only by the distant sound of fine rain hitting the roof. The weather was curious; for a regular February, the day was slightly cold due to the rain, which was certainly strange but no novelty. Living in the south of the country, in a valley near the coast, meant constant encounters with sudden cold snaps and rain at the most unusual times of the year. And that morning was no different. The cold wind entering through the window cracks, combined with the humidity of the dawn, created an almost autumnal climate. Nothing typical for the month, but it made sense. Sometimes the weather likes to play with our expectations. I wrapped myself in the hoodie I left hanging on the chair the night before and went straight to the kitchen. The morning routine was the same as always, but on that occasion, each step seemed more conscious. I turned on the kettle and started making coffee. The water took a few minutes to heat, time I used to mentally organize the next steps: backpack, uniform, review materials... everything was already separated since the night before. Even so, the habit of checking everything one more time was uncontrollable. While the coffee slowly brewed, I took the opportunity to open the kitchen window. The sky was overcast, covered by heavy, thick clouds that promised more rain for the rest of the day. The street began to show classic signs of hustle, with that subtle mist floating over the asphalt, typical of colder mornings. I drank my coffee in silence, feeling the warmth of the drink contrast with the cold in my fingers. Soon I went to my room, put on my uniform, that familiar set, the characteristic light blue shirt with a torch logo on the right side, under the chest, which felt almost the same as wearing a team shirt. I finished dressing, quickly checked myself in the mirror, applied a quick touch of makeup, simple foundation, light contour, and concealer, nothing too flashy, nothing too simple. I took my backpack, checked my notebooks and pencil case one more time, and left, closing the door with the same care as before not to wake my mother. Even being a simple, side street, almost unnoticed in the middle of the city center, mine had its own charm. The sidewalks, still wet from the overnight rain, formed small mirrors reflecting the morning sky and the people who quickly started walking with their factory vests heading to work. The facades of the houses, mostly old, with low walls and rusty gates, seemed to silently observe the routine of passersby. The bus stop was a few steps away, almost at the corner. It was one of the few advantages of living where I do: accessibility. As I approached the stop, I started to see more movement. People grouped together, some with backpacks, others just observing the street flow. Many faces were strange to me, which was no surprise. Every year, n