Chapter 3: Scent of freedom

Chapter 3: Calm Before the Weird

The storm had finally started to weaken, letting out a few half-hearted rumbles like it was too tired to keep up the act. A light drizzle tapped the roof of the auditorium, rhythmic and oddly comforting compared to the earlier chaos. The air inside was a mix of sweat, deodorant, and damp uniforms—not exactly ideal, but nobody really cared. We were just waiting. Bored. Restless. Stuck.

I sat near the edge of the row, Max beside me, fiddling with his phone that had no signal and barely any battery left.

"Still nothing," he muttered, holding it up like a sacrifice to the signal gods.

"Try praying harder," I said, leaning back against the plastic chair. "Maybe offer it your soul."

He scoffed. "What soul? The education system took that years ago."

A few students chuckled around us. The tension from earlier had started to loosen its grip, replaced with shared complaints and tired jokes. A group near the corner had started playing word games, their laughter occasionally rising above the murmur of conversations.

The female teacher from earlier who looked at the window like a dragon was about to crash though it passed by our row with a half-empty bottle of water and the look of someone two seconds away from losing it, i think i heard someone calling her Ms Emma.

"Keep it down, please," she said, not unkindly. Her voice cracked a little from hours of crowd control.

"I kinda feel bad for them," Max whispered. "Teachers, I mean. They signed up to teach history and grammar, not manage natural disasters."

"Yeah," I said. "Bet they're regretting their life choices."

The lights flickered once. Just once. But it was enough to get a collective groan from everyone. Power had been stable for the past hour—mostly. A few teachers near the front were huddled together, probably discussing when we'd be sent home. Or maybe just complaining about the Wi-Fi.

Someone passed me a biscuit packet. I didn't ask who. I just took one, chewing slowly as I listened to the drizzle. The taste was a bit off—like it had been stored near a soap bar. I made a face.

"Tastes like regret and expired hope," I muttered.

Max raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

I handed him one. "Judge for yourself."

He took a bite and immediately spat it back into the wrapper. "Bro. That's a war crime."

We both laughed, and it felt good—normal.

Someone farted. Loud enough to cause a ripple of chaos in the back rows. The smell hit a few seconds later.

"Oh, come on!" someone shouted.

"Whoever did that should be publicly shamed," Max said, pulling his collar over his nose.

"We're already suffering," I added. "Why add chemical warfare to the list?"

Ms. Emma, again trying to maintain control, just sighed and rubbed her temples.

Minutes stretched. Conversations kept flowing, switching from favorite anime to who had the worst lunchbox meal today. I overheard one girl describing the smell of her tuna sandwich going bad. I think she said it had a weird metallic tang to it. She threw it out an hour ago. Probably a good decision.

The guy beside her nodded sagely. "You should sue the canteen. Emotional damage."

We shared snacks, stories, deodorant, and even misery. The auditorium had become this weird, smelly, echo chamber of humanity trying to stay sane. And for once, it wasn't the worst place to be.

Somewhere along the way, the rain thinned out even more. The clouds still lingered, heavy and grey, but the rage from earlier had dulled.

A few moments later, the principal took the stage. His voice cracked slightly through the old microphone system.

"Alright, students. The authorities have given us clearance. We'll be releasing you in phases, class by class. Make sure to inform your guardians. Stay safe, and get home as quickly as possible."

The sound of relief was almost louder than the storm had been. People stood, stretched, some even clapped.

When it was our turn to leave, Max and I joined the line moving slowly out of the auditorium. The air outside hit me like a damp towel—humid and thick. Puddles covered the walkways, and the faint patter of rain still echoed across the courtyard.

Max stretched and yawned. "Freedom is near. Smell that? That's the scent of the freedom."

I sniffed. "Nope. Still smells like socks and desperation."

We laughed again. It wasn't important. But it was enough.

The bus ride home was quiet. Most of us just stared out the windows at the dripping city, headphones in, no one talking. I watched the streets blur by, grey and reflective, the city caught in a strange pause.

Home didn't feel any different when I finally stepped through the door. Still damp. Still grey. But at least it was quiet.

I dropped my bag, peeled off the wet socks, and sank onto the couch.

Nothing was wrong. Just a long, boring storm. And now, finally, it was over.