Other universes of Cherner's realities.

On September 20th, there was an extra chemistry class. Kamila made numerous mistakes on the problem again. Anna Stanislavovna stood nearby, scanning the notebook with increasing frowns—not out of anger, but confusion. “Kamila,” she finally said, “were you trying to solve the problem… or summon Satan?” Valieva, without thinking, blurted out, “Well, my chemistry teacher taught me to do it exactly this way. What’s the problem?” Shcherbakova looked up at her, her expression a mixture of surprise, coldness, and intense scrutiny. The corner of her mouth twitched into a fleeting, sly smile. “Tell me, my dear,” she said slowly, “when was the last time someone hit you with a ruler?” Kamila went pale. Her eyes widened, and her breath quickened. “Anna Stanislavovna… I was joking. That’s not what I meant. Please… don’t do this.” Anna paused for a moment. Too strong a reaction, a thought flickered in her mind. Fear is in control. I need to understand where it comes from. She stood up, walked to the classroom door, and locked it from the inside, keeping her eyes on Kamila. The response was immediate: the girl’s face showed pure, unmasked terror. There were no words or protests—only anticipation. Not a teacher, Anna realized. It’s not me. Returning to her desk, she picked up a ruler and said in an intentionally harsh tone to test her hypothesis: “Well, Kamila, you’re going to answer for your words now.” The result was instant and terrifying. Kamila recoiled, trying to huddle into a corner of the classroom, shielding herself with her hands. “Please… don’t… — her voice trembled. — I’ll fix it… I’ll be good… Mom, please… stop him…” It was as if Anna had been doused in cold water. Damn it. Anya, you idiot. This isn’t a game. She’s traumatized. She’s been hit. And you… Her thoughts spiraled. Something from a university psychology manual surfaced in her mind—the very one she once pushed aside in irritation. “I’m a chemist, not a psychologist.” And at that moment, a voice rang clear in her head—calm, lucid, oddly familiar. Cherner. “Shcherbakova, don’t be dumb. She needs connection now, not pressure. Hug her. Stroke her back. Make her understand she’s here, now, and it’s okay. I had a girl like this. Panic attacks. And another thing—don’t go in alone. Talk to Medvedeva or Tutberidze. They know her better.” Anna was not surprised. After New York and Chicago, the world had long ceased to be a place where everything had a simple explanation. She acted. Carefully, Anna approached, took Kamila's hands, and hugged her—surprising even herself. Not tightly, not abruptly, just confidently. At first, Kamila trembled. Then her breathing steadied. After about ten minutes, her gaze became focused and alive. “All done…” Anna softly asked. “Are you feeling calm?” Kamila nodded eventually, though it took her a moment. Shcherbakova helped her up. “I’m sorry,” she said, choosing her words as if it was the first time. “I didn’t expect such a reaction.” The phrase came out dry and uneven, but Kamila accepted it. She even smiled, as if she mentally noted something. They sat down. Anna began to analyze the errors calmly—step by step. “Where exactly do you stop understanding?” Kamila dropped her gaze. “Everywhere.” Anna sighed heavily. Not stupid. Just overwhelmed. And trying very hard. She started explaining again—slowly, clearly, without pressure. Kamila listened attentively, hanging on every word. Occasionally, Anna brushed her hand through Kamila's hair or along her back, noticing how she still flinched. Not used to it. Or has long forgotten about kindness, she realized. “Kamila,” Anna said cautiously, “I need to ask. Answer honestly.” Kamila tensed but nodded. “Am I correct to understand… you don’t have warmth at home?” “My mom doesn’t care about me,” Kamila replied sharply. Anna chose not to ask about the father. “Then let’s make a deal,” she said softly. “Do you like being praised? Being treated kindly?” “Yes…” Kamila let slip. She immediately blushed. “Well… yes.” Anna hummed. “Good. Here’s the arrangement. You try—I'll support you. No fanaticism. But honestly.” Kamila blushed again and nodded, “I agree.” The remaining time passed peacefully. Learning. Explanations. A trust that was just beginning to form. Perhaps it was merely a step. Or maybe the beginning of something much bigger. Later at home, Kamila wrote in her journal: Journal Entry: Today, Anna Stanislavovna apologized. And she stroked my head. For some reason, that made me feel at peace."