I never expected to see my high school history teacher again, let alone in the middle of a bustling farmers’ market. Yet there he was, weaving through the crowd with the same easy confidence I remembered, his voice cutting through the chatter as he called my name.
“Claire? Is that you?”
I turned, and there he stood: Mr. Harper, or rather, Leo Harper, as he quickly corrected me when I instinctively addressed him with “Mr.”
Seeing him after all these years was surreal. Back in high school, he was the young, charismatic teacher everyone loved. He had this knack for turning dry history lessons into gripping stories. While many of my classmates secretly (or not-so-secretly) crushed on him, I’d seen him simply as a supportive teacher who believed in me.
Fast forward eight years, and there he was, looking just as vibrant, albeit more mature. The casual conversation that followed was easy, like reconnecting with an old friend.
