It was a chilly September afternoon in London, and twelve-year-old Sherlock Holmes was sitting on a bench in the schoolyard, his sharp eyes watching the students rush past him. He was a strange boy, known for his keen intellect and even keener curiosity, which often got him into trouble. But none of that mattered to him—Sherlock relished solving mysteries, no matter how big or small.
Today, however, something felt different. His instincts, always finely tuned, were telling him that something unusual was about to happen.
As he sat there, a girl about his age, with striking dark hair and intense eyes, approached him. She wore a school uniform, but her accent was unmistakably foreign.
"You are Sherlock Holmes, yes?" she asked, her voice carrying a slight, melodic lilt.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I am. And you are?"
"Dea," she said, offering a small, confident smile. "From Albania. I’ve heard about you. You solve mysteries."
Sherlock studied her, intrigued. She had a certain air about her, like someone who had seen more than most kids their age.
“I suppose I do,” he replied nonchalantly. “What’s it to you?”
Dea glanced around to make sure no one was listening. She leaned in closer. “Someone at this school is dead.”
Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, though his expression remained calm. “A death? Here? Why haven’t I heard about it?”
“Because no one knows yet,” Dea whispered. “But I saw the body—one of the teachers, Mr. Larkins, in the art room. It’s been made to look like an accident, but I’m sure it wasn’t.”
Sherlock leaned back, his mind racing. If what Dea said was true, this was no ordinary school incident. But why would she come to him? “Why tell me?”
Dea’s eyes narrowed. “Because I know you can help me solve it.”
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