You have an exceptionally bad student in your class. Unfortunately, reality has invariably bends over backwards to make their wrong answers right.

The Student Who Was Always Right

I first noticed something strange about Milo Carter during a routine math quiz.

It was a simple test—basic arithmetic, nothing tricky. But when I graded his paper, I saw something unusual.

One question asked: 7 + 5 = ?

Milo had written 12.

I frowned. That wasn’t right. The answer was 14—everyone knew that. I grabbed my red pen and marked it wrong.

But as I moved on, something nagged at me.

I pulled out my calculator, just to be sure. 7 + 5 = 12.

I blinked. That couldn’t be right. I checked my answer key, my lesson plan, an old math textbook—everywhere, the answer was 12.

Had I really made such a simple mistake?

I shook my head and kept grading.

Another question: 6 × 3 = ?

Milo had written 18. I sighed—another mistake. The answer was 15, obviously. I marked it wrong.

Then, just to be sure, I did a quick check.

6 × 3 = 18.

I stared at my calculator. Then I flipped through the textbook. Every source agreed with Milo.

The answer had always been 18.

At first, I chalked it up to exhaustion. Maybe I was overworked. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

But it kept happening.

In history, I asked who wrote the Declaration of Independence. Milo confidently answered, “Thomas Jefferson.”

I frowned. "No, it was Benjamin Franklin."

The class went silent. Someone laughed.

"Uh… no, it wasn’t," a student said.

I turned to my notes, my lesson plan, the history textbook.

Thomas Jefferson.

It had always been Jefferson.

I felt heat rise to my face. Had I seriously misremembered one of the most fundamental facts of American history?

In science, I asked what planet was closest to the sun.

Milo immediately said, "Mercury."

I chuckled. "Nope. It’s Venus."

He gave me a confused look. "It’s Mercury."

I opened my mouth to correct him—then hesitated.

I grabbed my phone and did a quick search.

Mercury was the closest planet to the sun.

It had always been Mercury.

My hands felt clammy. My thoughts swirled. Why did I keep getting things wrong?

It took me weeks to accept it.

Milo was never wrong.

Not because he was special or supernaturally gifted—he was an average student at best. But somehow, I was the one making mistakes.

And once I corrected myself, it was like my old memories faded.

Like I had never known the right answers at all.

One afternoon, I asked him to stay after class.

"Milo," I said carefully, "do you ever feel like… you’re the only one who remembers things correctly?"

He frowned. "Huh?"

I hesitated. "Have you ever noticed people arguing with you about facts that seem obvious? Stuff that you know for sure, but other people get wrong?"

He shrugged. "I mean… sometimes? But I just figured some people don’t pay attention in class."

I swallowed hard. What if I was the one who had never been paying attention?

I took a breath. "Okay. One last question. What’s the capital of France?"

Milo gave me a weird look. "Paris."

I nearly sighed in relief. "Right, of course."

But a creeping fear lingered in the back of my mind. What if I had been ready to argue?

What if I had been absolutely sure the answer was something else?

And worse—what else had I been wrong about?

From that day on, I stopped questioning Milo.

Every time he gave an answer, I checked it against books, history, science, even my own memories.

And every time, he was right.

It wasn’t that he was a genius. It wasn’t that he knew everything. It was that I had somehow learned everything wrong.

I didn’t know how it had happened. Maybe I had been taught poorly. Maybe I had misremembered too many things.

But something felt off—as though the very fabric of reality was shifting around me.

I tried to go to the principal, but she just shook her head, telling me that the school was aware of Milo's… peculiar influence on the student body. It made sense to her now, she said, but it hadn't always been that way.

It was in her eyes that I saw it—the same strange unease that I had felt deep in my bones.

"Don't you remember?" she asked softly. "You really don't remember, do you?"

I blinked, confused. "Remember what?"

She gave a tiny sigh, and then whispered, "Milo isn't just a student. He’s… part of something bigger. Something older. He’s been here longer than any of us."

I left her office, my mind a whirlwind. But when I returned to the classroom, Milo was sitting there like usual—calm, collected, a slight smile on his face.

He knew something I didn’t.

Then, in an instant, everything shifted again.

The world bent in ways I couldn’t explain—shapes changed, faces blurred. My memories felt fragile, like they were being torn from my mind, piece by piece.

In the corner of the room, I noticed a door I had never seen before. It was slightly ajar, but beyond it was only a void of blackness. A chill crept up my spine.

"Milo," I said, my voice trembling, "What is that door? I’ve never seen it before."

He looked up at me with that same knowing smile. "It’s where all the things you’ve forgotten go. But now, I think it’s time for you to remember."

Before I could speak, the door swung open.

It was then that I realized—I had never been the teacher.

Milo had been running the classroom all along, and I was the one who had been his student. I had always been wrong because he had changed my reality—because he was the keeper of knowledge, the manipulator of truth, the one who knew how the world really worked.

I wasn’t just forgetting facts. I was forgetting everything.

And as the darkness from the door enveloped me, I felt my own identity slip away, as I was pulled into the void.

Milo was right. He had always been right. And now, I was part of his twisted lesson.