The courtyard fell silent. Rivas’s eyes crinkled.

Groans rippled through the class. Sofía crossed her arms.

She opened her notebook and, for the first time, didn’t underline or circle anything. She just wrote.

A girl named Camila raised her hand. “This tree has seen a thousand wars and still offers flowers to the sky.”

The next morning, he led the class to the school’s crumbling courtyard. A lone flame tree bloomed in the center, its red flowers like small explosions against the gray sky.

That night, Sofía didn’t see a tree outside her window. She saw an old immigrant. She saw waving fiery hands. She saw a thousand wars ending in red petals.

But Profesor Rivas, who wore bowties and smelled of old books, overheard her. He smiled. “You’re right, Sofía. You can’t learn to dance by labeling the steps on paper. Tomorrow, bring a pencil and your imagination. We’re going outside.”

“That,” he said, “is why we do the exercises. Not to trap poetry, but to set it free.”