The teacher slaps DIFFERENT on the board. Işıl taps her pencil against the wobbly chair leg. Tap. Tap.
"Tell the class one thing you're weird at," she says. The walls are grey, the chairs don't match, and nothing here sparkles.
A boy with crooked glasses bounces up. "I collect sounds that don't exist — like the noise a sneeze makes when it almost sneezes but stops."
Işıl's pencil freezes mid-tap. Outside, the pomegranate tree rattles its round red fruit in the wind.
A girl spreads her fingers wide. "I make three shadows. My mom says I have extra elbows."
Three wiggly shapes split across the floor. Işıl grins, showing the gap where her bottom tooth used to be.
A stripe of sun hits the chalk smudge on the board. The teacher points at Işıl. "You."
Işıl stands, mouth open — silence. Then she holds up crumpled paper: a pomegranate with sharp teeth, winking.
"I draw things that fight." A kid snorts loud. The crooked-glasses boy whispers, "Scariest pomegranate ever."
Işıl looks down. Every desk now has a doodle — fighting fruits, ghost-sounds, three-shadow hands.
Sun pouring through the window catches the chalk dust, and it floats like tiny gold stars over the mismatched chairs.
Işıl rests her chin on her palm. The grey is gone.