Myrkkyä

A quiet August afternoon finds a small classroom humming with odd rituals. The pupils sit on a hard bench, their nervous glances fixed on the stern assistant teacher who sharpens goose‑feather pens as if they were weapons. Among them, little Marius watches the world through large, wary eyes, while his classmate Tolleiv struggles to recall the names of Belgian towns for a surprise quiz that feels more like an interrogation.

The atmosphere is a mix of idle daydreaming and restless curiosity: some boys stare at a lone apple hanging from the teacher’s garden, others sketch maps on the margins of their textbooks, and a few whisper about imagined voyages across miniature wooden ships. As the lesson unfolds, the children’s attention flickers between the ticking clock, the mysterious “more cities” mantra, and the subtle tension of being examined, hinting at larger secrets hidden within the school’s orderly routine.