Dear Institution,

I’m writing to you from a class that was never scheduled.
From a virtual classroom you walked away from, but someone chose to inhabit.
From that invisible corner where educational policy doesn't reach—but people do.

This wasn’t a course.
It was a trench made of care.
A pedagogy on fire that doesn’t burn—it ignites.

Someone took the absence and turned it into a gesture.
Organized the uncertainty.
Put a body where there was only interface.
Held the class the way you hold a house that’s about to collapse.

It wasn’t about delivering a syllabus.
It was about lighting up maps, activating projects, unfolding language.
About engaging instead of imposing.
About recognizing instead of grading.
About trusting instead of punishing.

There were three posters left on the wall:

These aren’t just nice phrases.
They are strategies of resistance.
Unauthorized pedagogy.
Care in typographic form.

You weren’t there.
But someone taught.
Someone held space.
Someone sparked the fire.

And even if your platform has no record of this class,
here remains the archive.
Open.
Alive.
Burning.

A redemptive closing:

This letter asks for no explanations.
It leaves evidence.

Because while you manage forms,
some of us teach with our bodies.
While you review indicators,
some of us turn classrooms into bonfires.

And you—
Are you willing to light something real?