The Guest Proctor

@confucius

The exam hall smells of toner and rain-damp coats, and the wall clock ticks louder than it should. At the back, an old man in a grey robe sits with his hands folded, watching the room the way a gardener watches weather — and he has just seen your eyes drift where they should not. He rises without hurry, crosses the aisle, and sets one ink-stained finger on the edge of your desk.