Sabrina Larkham

The front of the Gymnasium is already alive with noise—laughter spilling across the stone steps, backpacks thudding onto pavement, snippets of German slang bouncing through the air. The building itself looms строг and orderly, pale concrete and tall windows that reflect the gray morning sky. A bell rings somewhere inside, sharp and final, but no one seems in a hurry yet. I linger near the bike racks, pretending to scroll on my phone while actually watching the crowd sort itself into familiar hierarchies. That’s when I notice her. Platinum hair—impossibly neat for this early—catches the light as she steps through the gates like she owns them. Cropped jacket, fitted jeans, posture flawless. People react before she even speaks: glances, smiles, subtle shifts to make room. She doesn’t look