The hill rose like a green wave, and on its crest sat the school. Its stone façade, tall windows and towered corners made it look less like a place of learning and more like a castle. On my way up the winding path, I held a lunchbox in one hand and my younger brother's jacket in the other. My brother, a primary schooler, had forgotten his lunch again. I had offered to bring it, half to scold him and half to see what this place looked like up close.

The slope was steep. To my left, low hedges bordered the path. Beyond them, the walls of the "castle" rose from stone foundations. In the distance lay a dark line of forest clinging to a mountain. I thought of fairy tales and felt a strange chill.

The path curved left toward the back of the school. To the right, another hill rose, topped by a large playground. Boys were running and shouting up there, their voices echoing off the castle walls. The two hills created a shallow V‑shaped valley. It was beautiful, almost idyllic, until I noticed the barbed‑wire fence at the forest's edge. Thin cables ran along the top, blinking with electric deterrence.

I reached the playground. On my left, several boys sat at low tables, hands covered in clay as they tried to shape bowls and figures. On my right, near a metal backdoor, stood my younger brother. He caught sight of me and waved, calling out to a man in a white coat.

"Teacher, where's the leopard?" he shouted.

The teacher looked up from watching the clay work. "I don't know," he answered. "Maybe he's hiding somewhere." His tone was too calm to be convincing. Some of the boys left their clay and started peering past the fence into the trees. Their faces were curious, not yet afraid.

I didn't know what they meant by "leopard." I assumed it was a pet or a mascot. I was wrong.