I was a strict teacher; I made sure to enforce the rules and hold my students accountable for their actions. I looked at my students based on their academic performance and behaviour in class. I have taught for almost my whole life. I found teaching wasn't about raising the kids but about giving them the knowledge they needed and making sure they stayed in line. I believed in creating a structured and disciplined learning environment to help my students succeed. It was rewarding to see them grow and develop into responsible individuals ready to take on the world.
However, my view, after nearly forty years of teaching, shattered in an instant. I was in the store late one evening when I found myself caught in a robbery. To my shock, I heard a familiar voice demanding money from the cashier. It was one of my former students. I still remembered his face as a boy, sitting in the back row, silent. Even so, I didn't hesitate to step in; somehow, I didn't feel afraid. That was my biggest mistake. He recognised me and pointed the gun straight at me. In that moment, I was frozen to my core; he spat hateful words at me. As he held me at gunpoint, I realised the impact I had on his life might have led him here, standing before me with eyes full of anger. I regretted not reaching out sooner, not asking why he'd stopped coming to class. I tried to speak and tried to reach for him, but the answer I got was pain. I didn't realise it at first, but he had shot me. I remembered his face, twisted with hatred and hurt towards me…
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The feeling of this guilt would always be lingering inside of me, even in the afterlife. I knew that my failure to connect with him had ultimately cost me my life. In that moment, I wished I had shown more compassion and understanding towards him. I WISHED—I WISHED—I WISHED—I WISHED…
Those words kept echoing inside my head, a never-ending cycle of regret and longing for a second chance to make things right. If only I had been more attentive and empathetic, maybe this tragedy could have been avoided. Then, all at once, the world fell silent. I WAS DEATH…
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That was what I thought as I opened my eyes, and somehow I could open them. I was met with a blinding light, and a feeling of peace washed over me. I realised that this was not the end but a new beginning.
I found myself in the middle of the room. The room was antique—everything was made of wood, and every piece of furniture was clearly handcrafted with care. For a moment, it felt as if I had simply dozed off at my desk and woken up somewhere unfamiliar. As I looked around, I remembered that I had died a moment ago. Immediately, I touched everything on my body, and I slapped myself. Feeling the pain of the slap, I knew that I was truly alive.
"It isn't a dream," I whispered to the empty room, my own voice steady and unfamiliar in the stillness…
"Wait a moment, is that my voice?" It sounded different—younger, deeper, carrying a strange accent. It was as if I was hearing myself for the first time. "Is there any mirror in this room?"
I looked around frantically, desperate to catch a glimpse of my reflection and confirm that I was indeed alive and present in this unfamiliar body. After finally locating a mirror, I stared at my reflection in disbelief, feeling a mix of confusion and wonder at the person looking back at me.
In the glass, a young man stared back—sharp eyes, short brown hair, and a posture too rigid for someone so young. I raised my hand; he did the same. Immediately, I was struck by the realisation that I was not dreaming but truly inhabiting this new form.
After giving myself some time to compose, I decided to look around the room. I tried to find out who I was in this body… I searched the room carefully—every drawer, every shelf. It was clear this wasn't just any bedroom. The books stacked neatly on the desk that I didn't recognise. At last, I found a name etched into the cover of an old leather-bound book.
Alaric Mordane…
So, this was who I was now. A teacher. A mage. I almost laughed. Even in death, it seemed, I was destined to teach.
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"WAIT A SECOND!" The realisation struck me like cold water. If I were a teacher, I'd be expected to teach magic. Magic. I didn't know single thing about it. How was I supposed to teach something I'd never studied in my life?
I ran a hand through my hair—this hair—trying to steady my thoughts. There had to be notes, textbooks, or maybe handbooks; every school must have had handbooks that consisted of everything. I flipped through every book that I found, but everything looked like scribbles to me.
Eventually, I heard it…
A faint ticking. I turned my head and spotted an ornate clock on the wall. I just stared at it, wondering how a world like this even had such craftsmanship. My eyes narrowed when I surprised myself on my core and saw for the first time magic happened. The clock immediately started to glow and emit a soft hum; a word that I had never seen suddenly appeared in front of it like a hologram. Time to lecture… Somehow, I could read that…
LECTURE!
I felt my stomach drop. I didn't need to know the language to understand—it was time for class.
"So how do I do it? Teach them nothing?"
The clock bell kept ringing, signalling I needed to go there. The sound of the bell was the same as the sound of my heartbeat.
"So I really am expected to stand in front of students and teach them magic?"
I exhaled, straightened my back out of old habit, and shut the book. I was a teacher—I would be a teacher, even if I had no idea what to teach. Rules, discipline, presence—that, at least, I knew.
I took the robe—it looked formal enough to be a teacher's uniform in this world. I draped it over my shoulders, ran my hands over the fabric to smooth it out, and walked to the door. I hesitated only for a breath before opening it and stepping outside.
"Where is the classroom?" That thought struck me the instant the door closed behind me. But the question vanished as I looked around.
The hall was so antique and grand, with intricate designs on the walls and high ceilings that echoed my footsteps. I didn't know that fantasy world would have this type of school. It was like I was inside the castle of some royalty. I kept walking—walking—walking—walking without any direction.
However, I found some good news; I've found the cafeteria, and I was in awe of the size of it. Right now, the room was empty, but as empty as it was, it was so huge. The tables were made of polished wood, and the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling gave off a warm glow.
I almost forgot about the classroom. So I walked out from the cafeteria and tried again to search the classroom.
The hallways seemed never-ending; I walked—walked—walked—walked. After what felt like hours of wandering, I stumbled upon the park or greenhouse thing. It was a beautiful space with lush greenery and colourful flowers, a stark contrast to the sterile hallways. Seeing that, I decided to go there and explore it. If I were a student and the teacher didn't arrive, I would search for the teacher. Maybe they, my students, would try to find me.
A small fountain trickled in the centre, its waters glowing faintly with runes. For the first time since death, I let myself breathe. As I stood by the fountain, I noticed a stone bench beside it. I decided to take a rest on that bench. I put my feet on the bench and stretched it so I could lie down.
So in here was my afterlife. I was dead not long ago, and now here I was lying on the bench in the world I didn't know. The cool breeze brushed against my skin, carrying with it a sense of peace and tranquillity. I closed my eyes…
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As I closed my eyes, the image of the old classroom where I taught began to emerge. I saw myself teaching in front of the classroom. As I walked around the classroom while I was teaching. I saw a different side. I remembered that my teaching was good to all the students, yet I found the biggest flaw. All my students didn't seem engaged or interested in the lesson. Even the prodigy of the class seemed not interested in my lesson. She seemed just to be listening to my lesson, like it went in the right ear and left in the left ear, so she went to other subjects. At the back of the classroom, I saw myself at the front of the classroom; he kept writing notes and everything on the board, asking questions, and demanding answers. Which no one answered. All of the students' eyes were so distant—some looked at the clock, doing some doodling in their notebooks, and some simply stared at me blankly. No questions, no sparks, no interaction. Pure obedience. I looked at myself at the front of the classroom, as I remembered what I had been taught when I was a child: quiet meant respect, and silence meant discipline.
However now, as I was dead by my own student's hand, I felt the weight of that silence. I realised that all those blank stares were not respect; they were walls. The walls that I had built myself to them. While I thought I gave them good knowledge, what was good knowledge if it never took root? If it never sparked their questions or curiosity? I demanded answers, but I never gave them reason to ask. Seeing the cold of the classroom, there was one question that every teacher wanted to know: if I was dead, would my students visit my coffin? Would my student stand by my grave and whisper prayers for me? Or just sit still and stay silent? Or even worse, played with their phone? Or would they walk past unbothered, like how they met me outside school…
The vision faded. The old whiteboard dissolved into the rustle of leaves overhead and the trickle of the garden fountain beside me. I opened my eyes to the soft breeze and the unfamiliar sky. Here, in this my new life, I must become different than my own past…