Artem Solovey was the kind of student teachers often overlooked. He sat at the back of the classroom, his clothes worn and his hair unkempt. He rarely spoke unless prompted, and when he did, his answers were brief and mumbled. His classmates teased him, and even his teacher, Anna Ivanovna, found it hard to hide her frustration.

Despite her claims of treating all students equally, Anna took a peculiar satisfaction in marking Artem’s papers with red ink, her corrections bold and unforgiving. She had read his file and knew about his troubled home life: a mother who had passed away, a father who showed little interest, and a boy who was left to navigate the world on his own.

As Christmas approached, the classroom buzzed with excitement. Students brought gifts for Anna, each trying to outdo the other with elaborate wrapping and expensive trinkets. Amidst the pile of presents, a small, poorly wrapped box caught everyone’s attention. It was from Artem.

The class erupted in laughter. “What’s in there, a rock?” one student joked. Another chimed in, “Maybe it’s empty, just like his head!” Anna forced a smile, trying to maintain order. “Now, now, let’s see what Artem has brought,” she said, reaching for the box.

As she unwrapped it, the room fell silent. Inside was a small bottle of perfume, nearly empty. Anna recognized it immediately—it was the same fragrance she used. Confused, she looked at Artem.