Don Quixote's Delusions (7)

There is a faded memory.

Around the time I had just entered middle school, the teacher would sit me down beside them and speak to me.

-Muro.

I remember the warmth of the hand that stroked the sulking child.

I was held in place so I couldn't run, snug in a gentle embrace.

I secretly liked that unhurried atmosphere.

Though I would frown for no reason and stick out my lips.

-Were you very angry?

The teacher always asked me that.

They were the only truly kind person in an orphan's world...