A simple "Ready, go" starts the silence. It's a silence that folds over the room like a warning. No one wants to break it. A tired teacher's quiet footsteps caress the prompted silence, breaking it, yet somehow enforcing it. Papers flip, some slowly, some quickly with more confidence. One, then another. Then another, and another. But then, there is yet again silence. Just the faint sound of graphite against paper and the sound of the ticking clock. And the eyes of students wander toward the steady ticking, hoping that enough time has passed for the silence to end. But the silence is just beginning.
A student's chair creaks as they shift their position and the sound of frantic pencils slow as to seek out the source of the sound. A single cough erupts into the air, silencing the clock and the pencils completely. But then they start up again. The sounds of keys echo throughout the room and suddenly the soft notes of Koraskov's "Flight of the Bumblebee" ease the hold the silence held. But yet, some silence is still there. It's almost silent