CHAPTER FOUR — THE DAY THAT DOESN’T END

Dante didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, he’d been sitting on the edge of his mattress, shirt half-unbuttoned, staring at the cracks in the wall. Next, his alarm was screaming at him like it had a personal vendetta.

He slapped it off and lay there, staring up at the ceiling.

For a second, he forgot where he was supposed to be.
Then St. Peter’s slammed back into his mind—hallway fights, storage cupboards, Aaliyah’s eyes, a stick figure with a crown drawn on a random whiteboard like a joke from the other side.

His shoulder pulsed a slow, heavy ache. He rolled it carefully. It answered with that same mean tug.

“Still moving like a pensioner, I see.”

LD’s voice drifted in from nowhere and everywhere at once. Dante turned his head.

LD sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wardrobe as he lived there, hoodie up, curls spilling out, watching him with a lazy grin.

“You ain’t got work to haunt?” Dante muttered.

LD smirked. “This is work. I’m your emotional support ghost.”

“That a real job now?”

“In this economy? Probably.”

Dante pushed himself up with a groan. “Long day ahead.”

“You said that yesterday,” LD pointed out. “And look—” he gestured vaguely—“you survived. Proud of you, big man.”

Dante stood, stretched carefully, and started getting dressed. Black shirt. Dark jeans. Same jacket with the frayed sleeve. It was beginning to feel like armour.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Scars peeking near his collar. A man who looked more like security than staff.

LD appeared behind him in the reflection. No one else would see it, but Dante did.

“This place is doing something to you,” LD said quietly. “You feel that?”

Dante buttoned the last button. “It’s a job.”

“It’s more than that. You know it is.”

He didn’t answer.

He grabbed his keys.

He went to war.

THE RETURN

St. Peter’s didn’t look friendlier on the second day.

The building still loomed like an old fighter—scarred but standing—Windows cloudy. Fences crooked. A gull screamed somewhere overhead like it was arguing with God.

Kids trickled through the gates, blazers open, ties already loose, shoving each other, trading swear words like currency.

Dante stepped through and felt the same energy hit him: thick, restless, waiting.
LD walked beside him, hands in his hoodie pockets, humming some old tune from their teenage years.

“You famous now, you know,” LD said. “Word travels quick in schools. ‘New teacher backed the girls. New teacher made Kieran calm down. New teacher don’t take chat.’”

“Don’t gas it,” Dante muttered.

“I’m just saying,” LD grinned. “Back in the day, you wanted fear. Now? You got something else.”

Dante wasn’t sure he wanted to name it.

Kids glanced at him as he cut across the yard. Some nodded. Some smirked. One boy muttered to his friend, “That’s him, innit. The new guy who made Malik apologise.”

Dante pretended not to hear.
His shoulder twinged. He kept walking.

STAIRWELL GIRL

The first lesson ended with fewer casualties than he’d expected.

They’d actually done work. Real work. Actual paragraphs appeared on actual paper. Nobody threw anything. No one filmed him for memes. Destiny even said, “That lesson weren’t dead still,” which he chose to interpret as a compliment.

Between bells, he headed for the staff room to grab a coffee.

Halfway there, he passed the east stairwell—and stopped.

Someone was crying.

Not the loud, showy crying some kids did when they wanted attention. This was quiet. Contained. The kind of crying that tried not to be heard.

Dante hesitated.

He could walk away. It wasn’t his business. Past him would’ve.

But he couldn’t.

He followed the sound down two flights. There, tucked behind the turn in the stairs near a dusty window, sat a girl hugging her knees.

Uniform correct. Blazer too big. Edges of her headscarf neatly pinned. Eyes swollen and red.

She flinched when she saw him.

“I’ll go,” she said quickly, wiping at her face. “I’m going. I just needed five—”

“It’s calm,” Dante said. “You’re alright.”

She sniffed. “You gonna give me detention?”

“For crying?” He leaned against the wall opposite her. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”

She let out a wet laugh, half-choke, half-sob. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Amina.”

“Alright, Amina. You wanna tell me what’s going on, or you wanna keep letting your brain beat you up alone?”

She chewed her lip. “It’s dumb.”

“Most things that hurt feel dumb when you say them out loud,” Dante said. “Say it anyway.”

She hesitated. Then it came spilling out.

“My mum… she’s ill,” Amina said, voice shaking. “Like… actually, properly ill. And they still expect me to come school and act normal, like I’m not thinking every second ‘What if something happens while I’m in maths?’”

Dante felt something twist in his chest.

“And the teacher shouted at me ‘cause I didn’t have my homework,” she continued. “Sir, I’m not lazy. I swear I’m not. I just… I can’t breathe half the time, and no one sees it.”

She glanced up at him then, eyes blazing through tears. “They all think kids like us are dramatic. But some of us are just… tired.”

Dante nodded slowly.

“First of all,” he said, “I believe you. Yeah?”

Her lip wobbled again.

“Second,” he added, “you’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to cry in a stairwell like some low-budget movie scene.”

That made her snort.

“You got any teachers you trust?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Miss Clarke, sometimes. She… she listens different. Like you.”

“Good taste,” Dante said. “You want me to get her?”

Amina went quiet.

Then: “…Can you just sit for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Dante said. “I can do that.”

So he did. He sat opposite a crying teenager in a dim stairwell that smelled faintly of dust and floor cleaner, and he didn’t talk. Didn’t try to fix everything. Just… sat.

After a while, her breathing evened out.

“Thank you, sir,” she muttered. “Please don’t tell Miss. Not yet.”

“I won’t,” Dante said. “But at some point, you’re gonna have to tell someone. You ain’t meant to carry all that alone.”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Go get some water,” he said, standing. “Splash your face. Tell your teacher you had to use the bathroom.”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, got up, and adjusted her bag.

“Sir?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You’re… not like the others.”

He shrugged. “Bit late to change now.”

She smiled weakly and walked off.

LD appeared on the stairs, watching her go. “You’re getting soft,” he teased gently.

Dante sighed. “Man can’t win with you.”

LD tilted his head. “You did good.”

“Yeah,” Dante said quietly. “One kid at a time, init.”

RUNAWAY BOY

By midday, the whole building felt tense.

Something was off.

The kids were louder, but in that sharp way. Teachers’ shoulders were up around their ears. The air itself felt crowded.

On his way back from a cover lesson, Dante spotted a boy near the side door—hood up, rucksack half-zipped, eyes scanning the fence like he was planning a prison break.

“Yo,” Dante called. “Where you headed?”

The boy stiffened. “Home.”

“School’s not finished.”

“Don’t care.”

He recognised him—Jaylen. Late to every lesson. Attitude sharp. Jokes sharper. The kind of kid who wore anger like a hoodie.

“You got permission?” Dante asked.

“Don’t need it.” Jaylen’s jaw clenched. “I’m not staying here.”

“What’s happening at home?” Dante said.

Jaylen flared. “Why’s everyone think it’s home? Maybe I just hate school. Maybe I think this place is a joke.”

“That why your hands are shaking?” Dante asked gently.

The boy looked down. His fingers were trembling at his sides.

“I’m not trying to put you in detention, bro,” Dante said. “I’m trying to stop you doing something that makes your life harder.”

“I need to go,” Jaylen snapped. His voice cracked. “My little sister’s at primary and my mum didn’t come back last night. My auntie said she’s probably fine but they say ‘probably’ for everything.”

There it was again—that weight.

“You tell anyone here?” Dante asked.

“They don’t care,” Jaylen muttered. “Last time I told a teacher anything they said I was ‘seeking attention.’ So allow it.”

Dante exhaled slowly.

“Alright,” he said. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You come with me to the office. We tell them you need to check on your sister, yeah? If they move long, I’ll back you. But you’re not sneaking out alone. ‘Cause if something happens out there, they’ll blame you. Not the situation. You get me?”

Jaylen looked at him, weighing whether to trust him.

LD appeared by the exit door. “Take the deal, kid,” he said softly.

The boy shivered faintly, as if he’d felt something.

“…You swear you’ll back me?” Jaylen finally asked.

“On everything,” Dante said.

Jaylen nodded once. “Okay.”

They walked together to reception. The receptionist frowned, already annoyed.

“Mr Reid? This isn’t—”

“He needs to leave early on welfare grounds,” Dante said. “We need to ring his aunt.”

There was pushback. Questions. Raised eyebrows. But Dante stood his ground until the right person was called, the number dialled, the permission recorded.

When Jaylen finally left through the front door, he looked back at Dante just once.

“Safe, sir,” he said quietly.

Dante gave him a nod.

LD watched from the corner. “You’re doing more social work than teaching.”

“Kids need it,” Dante said. “No one did this for us.”

LD didn’t argue.

THE STAFF DIVIDE

The afternoon staff room was a war zone disguised as a kitchen.

Dante walked in to the smell of burnt toast and instant coffee. A few teachers nodded at him politely. Others watched him like he’d tracked mud onto their carpet.

Miss Harper waved. “Hey, Dante. Heard you helped Amina earlier. She actually showed up to my lesson not in tears for once.”

He blinked. “She told you?”

“Eventually.” Harper gave him a grateful smile. “Whatever you said to her… it helped.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “Just listened.”

“You’d be surprised how rare that is,” she said.

Across the room, Mr Lewis—the waistcoat guy—snorted into his mug.

“Here we go,” he muttered to the woman beside him. “The saviour complex begins.”

Dante pretended not to hear.
LD rolled his eyes. “Every staff room’s got one hater, minimum. It’s in the regulations.”

Miss Patel, a stern maths teacher, chimed in. “I just think boundaries are important. We’re teachers, not therapists. Getting too involved will only cause problems.”

Harper shot back, “We’re human beings around human children. He’s not doing anything wrong.”

Lewis cut in. “He’s overstepping. That boy this morning? Jaylen? You set a precedent, Mr Reid. You’re not social services.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Dante said calmly. “But if a kid’s telling me he’s scared, I’m not gonna tell him to write about it in his planner and move on.”

Patel frowned. “You’re new. You don’t understand how these kids manipulate.”

“And you’re jaded,” Dante replied, voice still quiet but firm. “You don’t understand how much damage it does when no one believes them.”

The room went cold.

Harper suppressed a smile into her tea.

Lewis set his mug down with a little clink. “You might want to watch that tone. This isn’t… wherever you’ve come from.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

LD whispered, “You gonna swing or nah?”

He took a breath instead. “I’m just here to do my job,” he said. “If that upsets you, that’s between you and HR.”

The bell rang, slicing the tension. Teachers scattered.

Harper lingered. “For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we need more of you. Don’t let them grind you down.”

Dante nodded. “We’ll see.”

AALIYAH ASKS

He didn’t make it ten steps down the corridor before Aaliyah appeared beside him like she’d been summoned.

“You okay?” she asked.

He blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because you look like you’re either about to evaporate or punch a wall.”

“Long day,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said that every day.”

LD leaned against a locker, watching them with interest. “She reads you too well, bro.”

“Give us a second,” Aaliyah snapped suddenly.

Dante realised she wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to a group of kids hovering nearby.

“Go to lunch,” she ordered. “This isn’t a free theatre production.”

They slunk off.

She turned back to Dante. “Talk to me.”

He looked at her properly then. At the worry in her eyes. At the way her mouth pressed together like she was holding back from touching him.

“All this…” he said, gesturing vaguely at the building. “It doesn’t feel like a job. It feels like… walking back into something I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape.”

Her gaze softened. “Is it the kids?”

“It’s everything,” he admitted. “Kids. Staff. The energy. The… noise in my head.”

LD popped up, as if he took offence “Man said Im noise you know”

She didn’t flinch.

“Dante,” she said quietly, “Others might not notice…but I see the way you flinch at sudden sounds. I see the way you hold your shoulder, masking the pain. The way your breathing changes when you’re alone in tight spaces. I don’t know what happened to you… but you can’t have to carry all of it by yourself.”

He swallowed.

LD watched, eyes sad.

“Why do you care?” Dante asked, voice cracking more than he wanted.

Aaliyah hesitated. Then: “Because you care. About them. About this place. More than some people who’ve been here ten years. And because you… matter.”

His heart thumped hard.

He wanted to say something back—something smooth, something light, something that matched the heat he saw in her eyes.

Instead, the corridor lights flickered.

Once.
Twice.

Aaliyah glanced up. “Great,” she muttered. “Add faulty electrics to the list.”

Dante’s skin prickled.

Down the hallway, on a whiteboard in an empty classroom they’d just passed, he caught sight of it again—a little crude stick figure with a crown.

The same one.
Same style.
Same stupid little lopsided smile.

LD’s old tag.

“Aye that… looks like mine… strange?!” His blood ran cold.

“Dante?” Aaliyah said. “You’ve gone quiet.”

He forced himself to look away. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

She opened her mouth to press further—

“Ms Clarke!” someone called from down the hall. “We need you in 10B!”

She winced. “Duty calls.”

She touched his arm lightly. “Don’t disappear after school. We’ll go over your timetable, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Promise?”

He managed a small smile. “Promise.”

She nodded once, then hurried off.

LD stepped into his line of sight.

“You’re seeing it too now,” LD said softly. “Not just in your head.”

Dante stared at the empty classroom.

The stick figure stared back.

HALE’S WARNING

He barely had time to breathe before he was summoned.

The message came via a Year Nine runner: “Sir, Principal Hale wants you.”

Hale’s office was exactly as Dante remembered: too clean, too strict, blinds half-closed so the light came in sharp lines rather than fully.

“Mr Reid,” Hale said without looking up. “Sit.”

Dante sat.

Hale flipped through a thin folder. “I’ve had mixed feedback about you.”

“Sounds about right,” Dante said.

“Some staff say you’re… effective,” Hale admitted. “Students seem to respond to you. They’re calmer in your presence.”

“Is that… a problem?” Dante asked carefully.

Hale ignored the question. “However, Others say you’re boundaryless. That you’re involving yourself far too deeply in students’ personal matters. That you undermine existing protocols.”

“Protocols don’t help if the kid falls through them,” Dante said.

Hale finally looked up. “Mr Reid…You do realise you are not a social worker. You are here on a time-limited arrangement. You are to follow the structures we have in place, not reinvent them.”

“And what if your structures aren’t working?” Dante asked.

The room went still.

Hale’s expression hardened. “Continue treading on thin ice, Mr Reid. Your… background… means any misstep will be scrutinised much more harshly than others. I would advise blending in, not standing out.”

Dante exhaled through his nose. “With respect, sir, blending in is how kids like these get ignored.”

“Careful,” Hale warned.

Dante stood. “I’m not here to make trouble. But I’m not here to look away either. If that’s a problem, maybe this was a bad idea from the start.”

Hale’s jaw tightened. “We will review your position at the end of the week.”

“Cool,” Dante said, though nothing felt cool about it.

He walked out, blood pounding in his ears.

LD drifted through the closed office door a moment later. “Man’s on your neck.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dante muttered.

THE HALLWAY THAT HUMS

The building felt different on the walk back.

Quieter.
But not empty.

The afternoon light slanted in through the high windows, turning dust motes into floating sparks. The corridor stretched long and narrow. Students were in class. Doors were closed. It should’ve been peaceful.

It wasn’t.

Each step echoed a little too loud.

Dante’s shadow stretched down the hall—and for a split second, he saw two shadows, side by side. One his, solid. One narrower, slightly shorter, head in a familiar tilt.

He blinked. The second shadow was gone.

The strip lights above buzzed.

Then flicked off.
On.
Off.
On.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Nah. We’re not doing this.”

He passed the empty classroom from earlier. The whiteboard inside was in full view.

The stick figure with the crown was still there.

Only now, next to it, someone had added another figure.

Taller. No crown. Just a little line across the shoulder, like a scar.

Dante’s breath stuttered.

LD stood beside him now, not joking, not grinning. Just… there. Realer than he’d ever looked in years.

“Been a long time since we tagged together,” LD said softly. “You remember?”

Dante’s chest ached. “I’m losing it.”

“You’re not,” LD said. “You’re waking up.”

“I don’t want this,” Dante hissed under his breath. “I came here to do my hours. Teach my lessons. Keep my head down. Not to be haunted.”

“Look where you are, Dante,” LD murmured. “You think this place is random? You think me showing up now is random?”

The lights flickered again.

Down the corridor, a door creaked open by itself. Slowly. Hinges whining.

Then slammed shut.

Dante flinched despite himself.

He closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his hand into them until he saw stars.

When he opened them, the stick figures were still on the board.

But LD was gone.

Not faded. Not walked away.

Just—gone.

For the first time that day, Dante felt something worse than pain, worse than anger, worse than exhaustion.

He felt small.

Small in a building full of storms.
Small against a past that had learned his new address.
Small against whatever St. Peter’s was waking up inside him.

The corridor hummed quietly.

He straightened, jaw clenched, and walked toward his next lesson.

The day wasn’t over.

And neither, it seemed, was anything else.