d down at her loose black jeans and white blouse. "What's wrong with this one?" "Nothing," her grandmother replied. "But you never know who you'll meet at that school. You want to look like s

ictures," she told them. "They notice what others overlook. That's your job now." The kids followed her like ducklings, asking questions, pointing out details. It filled her with a kind of peace she hadn't felt in months. Then, just as they reached the back of the building, she saw him again. Tobi. He was sitting alone on a low concrete step, notebook on his lap, pen in hand. A few of the younger students ran past him, laughing. He looked up, saw her, then looked back down-like he hadn't seen her at all. "Who's that teacher?" Adanna asked one of her students. "Uncle Tobi. He teaches us poems and music. He plays guitar." "Is he always that quiet?" "He's not quiet. He just talks when it matters." She raised a brow. Interesting. Later that afternoon, after she'd dismissed the students, Adanna found herself walking past his classroom. She slowed when she saw him still inside, seated at his desk, packing up books. She cleared her throat lightly. "You stay late." Tobi looked up. His eyes were kind, but unreadable. "I could say the same about you." Adanna walked in, her camera slung across her chest. "I'm trying to bring life to that art room. Thought I'd introduce myself properly." He stood and nodded politely. "Tobi." "Adanna." A pause. He glanced at her camera. "You're the photographer." "And you're the l