"Before trying to become parents, people should make sure they meet the standards," Henry said earnestly. His voice lingered softly, like a curl of smoke dissipating into the air. His gaze was distant, a hint of confusion and deep thought briefly flashing in his eyes. But in an instant, a smile bloomed across his face as he joked, "Don't do experiments at home." The humor was laced with bitterness, and before his smile could fully form, it faltered, replaced by a weariness that seemed to sap his strength.
Meredith's father is a cruel man—mean, irritable, and volatile. He vents all his anger toward Meredith, even mocking her weight. Meanwhile, Henry and Erica sit at a modest dining table, where Henry encourages Erica to take her vitamins and aspirin, advising her to get tested for HIV if possible.
"Why did you cry on the bus that day?" Erica asked.
Henry stood still, his expression blank. The emotion that had been present in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by an unsettling calm. Memories flashed before him—of his childhood, his mother. Then, just as quickly, he regained his composure. "Go to sleep," he replied softly.
Mark sat quietly in his chair, an inexplicable sadness overtaking him.
Henry's gentleness, his peacefulness, and his indifference were paradoxical. There was no visible sadness or pain, as if everything were carefully hidden—like a meandering river, sparkling but deep, with an undertone of somberness. Every gesture, every word seemed to carry the weight of years, with an almost Hamlet-like gravitas.
Mark found himself drawn to Renly's performance, captivated even by the smallest gestures. A slight raise of an eyebrow was enough to reveal layers of depth. As Mark watched, he began to appreciate the story more deeply, despite its heaviness.
"Hello. It's been a wonderful life—detentions, suspensions, expulsions, and now these death sessions," came a voice over the phone, a real-time message from the school's teacher's office. The former dean, once absent, now unleashed his anger. He had used illness and family excuses before, but this time, there was no more pretense. All his frustration poured out.
"The paper cuts, the tedious parents, the vicious kids—they've stained my soul. This humiliation must stop! We follow principles, but these kids think their nonsense is justified. We're the ones being judged, and it's insane. Is every child really worth something? Is this the price of education? Children with no motivation, no enthusiasm, no brains... let them all die!"
His words were harsh, but even more impactful were the images that followed: chalk drawings depicting children in power, teachers and parents reduced to pets or slaves. In one sequence, the fury of youth was evident as children beat and insulted their elders. The answering machine whirred with each increasing roar.
Then the sequence turned to German, followed by a clip of Adolf Hitler. The history teacher in class was showing World War II material to the students.
The montage was jarring, a blend of visual and auditory assault. It asked tough questions: Was it condemning teachers who gave up? Was it critiquing lawless children or irresponsible parents? The imagery drew parallels between the current American educational crisis and the historical horrors of war.
"Even if I know it's a lie, I want to believe it," Henry shouted, his voice desperate. He was fighting to inspire his students with his own diminishing strength. "Life is full of examples like this. 'I can only be happy if I'm beautiful.' 'I need surgery to look better.' 'I must lose weight, be famous, be fashionable!' Today's youth, under societal pressure, have internalized harmful beliefs—that women are inferior, that they can be exploited and humiliated."
For the first time, Henry's calm and composed demeanor cracked. His eyebrows furrowed with anger, a fierce emotion flashing across his face. "This is mass destruction. Twenty-four hours a day, we're pushed to work hard and then die in silence."
"So, to protect ourselves from this poison, we must learn to read," he continued, standing tall before the students. "We need to activate our imaginations, to cultivate consciousness and belief. These are the tools we need to defend our minds and preserve our thoughts."
Ironically, as Henry fought to inspire, the school board worked against him. They respected teachers' roles, but they were driven by economic interests, focusing on improving grades—not ideas. Only when grades improved, when prestige rose, and when enrollment rates increased, would the school thrive. But behind those numbers? Behind the financial motives? What about the students themselves?
The teachers' true responsibility should be to educate, but now they were tasked with creating economic value. This was the harsh reality of the system.
The story takes a somber turn. Each teacher, stripped of their professional identity, returns home to face their own struggles. Their pain and grief are filled with negativity, and there's no one to help them. At school, they must wear masks and perform, for their failures could have catastrophic consequences.
Under immense pressure, the teachers begin to crumble, as the education system, seemingly calm and peaceful on the surface, quietly unravels.
Mark, overwhelmed by the mounting pressure, finds himself gasping for air. His eyes, refusing to blink, ache from the intensity of what's unfolding on screen. He stares at Renly, his eyes dry but aching, as if the emotional weight of the scene was crushing him.
Erica's grandfather is critically ill. She rushes to the hospital, and Henry follows closely behind. The story behind his aloofness finally comes to light: his father abandoned him at a young age, and after his mother's suicide when Henry was seven, he had to shoulder the responsibility of caring for his grandfather, who, in his grief, couldn't care for Henry.
Sitting at his grandfather's hospital bed, Henry imitates his mother's voice, trying to comfort the man who once took care of him. But his dark brown eyes betray a depth of loneliness and confusion, reflecting the child who had once found his mother's lifeless body.
Mark's eyes widen, filled with sorrow, but there are no tears—only a deep, suffocating sadness. He watches Henry, whose thin shoulders betray an overwhelming loneliness. Henry trembles slightly, as if the weight of the world is pressing on him.
Meredith enters the classroom, her artistic talent drawing Henry's praise. Elated, Meredith shares her work, but Henry soon discovers her pain and fragility. Though he wants to help, he, too, is drowning in his own turmoil. He cannot save Meredith because he cannot even save himself.
In a desperate moment, Meredith collapses into Henry's arms, seeking solace. Henry, unable to offer it, tries to push her away, but Meredith holds on, clinging to him as her last hope.
Sarah, witnessing the scene, mistakenly accuses Henry of taking advantage of Meredith. The confrontation triggers Henry's anger, and he vents in the classroom, lashing out at Sarah for her misunderstanding and his own feelings of helplessness.
Just when Mark believes the situation can't get worse, it does. Henry's grandfather passes away. In the hospital bathroom, Henry's eyes redden—not from tears, but from the crushing weight of grief. He can't breathe, the suffocating pain threatening to overwhelm him.
"I wish there could be a different ending," Henry murmurs to the camera, gasping for air. "I've tried... but the truth is, we all have our problems. Sometimes it gets better, sometimes worse, and sometimes we just can't give others space."
Each word comes with difficulty, as if every breath is a struggle. "These kids need something else. They don't need me."
In the end, Henry decides to hand Erica over to a social worker, unable to continue caring for her.