"I wish this stuff would just write itself," he muttered, opening the page to a blank map of the Atlantic.
He didn't need to visit that night. He had lived the answers, and for the first time, Grade 7 history didn't feel like a lesson—it felt like a memory.
When he finally reached the last page—the Enlightenment—a bright flash pulled him back.
Maxim woke up at his desk. The room was quiet. He looked down at his workbook. It was no longer blank. Every line was filled with messy, urgent handwriting that looked like it had been written by candlelight. The ink was dry, but when he leaned in close, he could still smell a faint hint of gunpowder and sea salt.
Maxim started writing feverishly, not from a textbook, but from what he saw: the hunger in the sailors' eyes, the heavy scent of spices they hoped to find, and the terrifying vastness of the horizon. As he finished the sentence, the scene shifted.