THE MORNING SUNLIGHT glinted off the bleachers as I made my way toward the view. The breeze was warm and lazy, carrying with it the scent of freshly trimmed grass and sunblock. My two friends flanked me, gossiping about weekend plans and nail appointments, but my thoughts were miles away.
There he was. Dwight. He jogged across the field in his dark green jersey, the number 01 on his back glistening with sweat. His light brown hair clung to his forehead in damp curls, and his muscular arms flexed each time he threw the ball. There was something effortless about him. He didn't just play—he commanded the field. Like it was built just for him.
"He looks even hotter today," Cecily whispered, breaking into a giggle.
I smiled faintly, but I wasn't focused on his jawline or the way the sun kissed his skin. My mind drifted somewhere else.
I had just transferred to this school years ago. I still remember the awkward nerves in my stomach, the shine of my new shoes, and how tightly I clutched my class schedule like it was a shield. I was trying to find the music room when I took a wrong turn and ended up near the locker hallway—home turf for the jocks. Three of them stood there, laughing and shoving each other around. I tried to walk past without making eye contact, but one of them noticed me. They started with mocking my ribbon, my pink cardigan, and the way I walked. I pretended not to hear. However, that encouraged them.
The tallest one grabbed my bag and tugged it hard enough that the strap slipped off my shoulder. My books spilled onto the floor, and I froze, embarrassed and scared. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't used to this kind of treatment. Back at my old school, I was admired. Here, I was bullied. And then, I heard his voice.
"That's enough!"
I turned and saw Dwight standing there, not even in uniform. Back then, I didn't know his name. He was just this dude with a hoodie and jeans. But there was something about his stance. The other boys laughed nervously, tried to make a joke out of it, but Dwight didn't flinch.
"I said leave her alone."
It wasn't loud. He didn't need to shout. But they backed off. Muttered something under their breath. One of them kicked my math book across the floor before leaving. Dwight then picked it up.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I remember nodding quickly, trying to hide how shaken I was. I muttered something stupid—maybe a thank you, maybe a compliment about his hair. I was too flustered to remember. But that moment stayed with me.
It wasn't just about being saved. It was the way he did it. No theatrics. No expectation of praise. He just stepped in when someone was in trouble. Since that day, I had watched him differently. Not like a silly schoolgirl crushing on the captain of the football team—but like someone who recognized goodness when she saw it.
Of course, he barely knew I existed even if my name was popularized. We'd exchanged small smiles in the hallway, but nothing beyond that. And still, that memory lived in the back of my mind like a flower pressed between pages. Untouched. Preserved.
"Earth to Alice?" Maribelle sing-songed, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blinked, returning to the present.
"Huh?"
"You were zoning out hard," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"Let me guess—Dwight again?" Cee asked.
I looked down at my shoes, heat creeping up my cheeks. "Maybe."
Cee giggled. "He did look this way a few seconds ago. Maybe he finally noticed."
I smiled, just a little. Let myself believe that, even if only for a second. But before I could daydream again, one of them leaned forward suddenly, squinting toward the far end of the campus.
"Ugh. Guess who just crawled out of the underworld."
I followed Maribelle's gaze and saw someone in complete black outfit. She walked slowly across the courtyard, arms full of books, boots thudding softly on the pavement. Her long black dress swayed on her like a curtain. Her face was pale and expressionless, her dark hair falling messily over her shoulders. She didn't talk to anyone. Never did. But there was something spectral about her. Like she didn't quite belong to this place—or any place, really.
"She always looks like she just woke up from a funeral nap," Cee muttered.
"Who wears black every single day?" Maribelle chimed in. "She's like the poster child for goth depression."
I said nothing, but I couldn't stop staring.
Harriet's eyes were focused on the ground, unmoved by the whispers around her. It was like she couldn't hear them. Or didn't care to. There was no drama in her silence. No performative aloofness. She just was.
I wasn't sure if that made her brave or just cold. Still, something about her presence soured my mood. I couldn't help it. Because no matter how strange or ghostly Harriet appeared—she was the one who got the position I had worked for. The one the teachers thought was "refreshing," "brilliant," "a new face." And maybe it made me shallow, but I couldn't look at her without feeling like something had been taken from me.
"She doesn't even communicate," I muttered under my breath. "What kind of person is that?"
"Exactly," Maribelle said. "Like, who's going to follow someone who looks like she's cursed?"
"She's probably into witchcraft," the other joked. "Or keeps bones under her bed."
I gave a hollow laugh, but my fingers dug into the fabric of my skirt.
Harriet disappeared into the main building without once looking back. But her presence lingered like a shadow on the edge of a perfect morning. And I couldn't explain why—but it bothered me more than it should have.
All it took was the memory of that conversation with Mr. Halbrook—his voice still polished and professional as he said the words I couldn't forget.
"We've decided to give the organizational leadership role to Harriet. She's a fresh face. Someone who brings something new."
Something new. As if I hadn't given everything to this school already. All my efforts, all the time I'd spent leading, planning, organizing—gone in a breath. Replaced by someone who barely spoke. Who wore the same grim expression every day and looked like she'd been plucked from the pages of a ghost story.
My stomach then twisted. That position was supposed to be mine. I'd built my reputation piece by piece and Harriet had just walked in and taken it. Just like that.
I glanced at my friends, who were both still eyeing the path Harriet had taken into the building earlier.
"She thinks she's better than everyone," I muttered.
We all stared ahead at the field again, but the easy mood had faded. Even the sight of Dwight laughing with his teammates couldn't untie the knot in my chest. Then an idea slithered into my mind, petty and childish—but deliciously satisfying.
"She needs a little reality check," I said, my voice low.
Cee leaned in. "What's that?"
"We rig the bleacher bucket," I said, nodding toward the groundskeeper's old maintenance setup—an aging structure behind the practice area where leaky cleaning supplies and buckets were kept. "Just a little spill. Nothing crazy. Just enough to make her look ridiculous in front of everyone."
Maribelle grinned. "Like a slap of humility. I like it."
Then we walked away. During the water break, while most of the team had moved to the far side of the field and the coaches were busy reviewing drills, we snuck over to the side structure. The old maintenance ladder creaked beneath Cee's weight, but she climbed it anyway, while I steadied it and Maribelle kept watch. Perched just above one of the walkways between the lockers and the field's edge was an unused pipe rig, and resting precariously atop it—almost like fate had placed it there—was a filled plastic bucket. Likely rainwater, maybe cleaning runoff. Either way, it was going to work.
With a few adjustments, we angled it perfectly. The balance was delicate. All it would take was one nudge—someone brushing the pipe while walking beneath—and it would tip. We then returned to the bleachers, trying not to giggle like children, but our eyes were locked on the path. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Harriet emerged from the far hall, her books hugged to her chest as she made her way across the grass with that same expressionless walk.
She didn't notice anything odd. I mean, why would she?
She passed the narrow gap behind the bleachers and right beneath the rigged pipe.
Tip. The bucket slipped.
Water splashed down in a heavy rush. It hit her square on the shoulders, drenching her in one cold slap. Her books dropped with a wet thud onto the ground. And honestly, the reaction was immediate. A few gasps. Then a burst of laughter from the bleachers. Someone on the football team clapped sarcastically. Maribelle nudged me, stifling a laugh. Even I couldn't help but smirk.
But Harriet didn't flinch. She just stood there, soaked from head to toe, her hair plastered to her face. Her clothes clung to her figure, darkened by the water, her shoes squelching in the grass. She blinked once. Then bent slowly to retrieve her things. No tears. No shouting. No reaction at all. That unnerved me more than I'd expected.
And then—
"Hey!" Dwight jogged over.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice quiet but clear enough that I heard it from where I sat.
Harriet didn't speak. She didn't even look him in the eye. But she took the towel gently, fingers trembling just slightly.
Dwight helped her pick up the rest of her books without a word. Then walked her toward the school building, still shielding her with the towel like it was the most natural thing in the world. And my heart sank.
It wasn't just the fact that Harriet got the attention. It was who was giving it. Dwight—my Dwight—offering kindness to the very person I wanted to vanish.
Maribelle leaned over. "What was that?"
"He's just being nice, I think," Cee mumbled, her smirk fading.
But to me, it wasn't just niceness. It was concern. It was gentleness. It was everything I admired about him—now directed at someone else.
Someone I had humiliated. Same when his teammates humiliated me when I transferred.
***
Later that afternoon, I stood near the wrought-iron gates, waiting for our family's black limousine to arrive. Normally, this part of the day was lively with students spilling out of the building, laughter echoing in the air, and the chatter of friends heading home or to after-school clubs. But today… it was different. Even though I still can't help how caring Dwight was earlier, I was kind of bothered by the silence here.
As I was looking around, I noticed that there were no other people around the area. This seems way different. Too different.
I frowned, hugging my bag close to my chest as I glanced around. Where was everyone?
There were no teachers waving goodbye at the door, no clusters of students taking snacks, not even the familiar scolding of the janitor yelling at skateboarders to move. Nothing. Just silence. The kind that pressed against your ears like cotton, heavy and unnatural.
I checked my watch again and saw that it's been minutes. I hugged my arms tightly over my uniform as I sighed. The courtyard, which was usually buzzing with noise—cars arriving, students chatting, teachers reminding everyone of deadlines—was still. Uncomfortably still.
I then glanced around. No honking. No footsteps. Not even birds. I shifted my weight uneasily.
Across the street, near the far gate, I noticed a man standing alone. At first, I thought he might've been waiting for someone too. But the longer I observe, I noticed something about him felt off. He wasn't looking at his watch. Wasn't pacing or checking his things like normal people do. He didn't even seem to blink.
He was tall. Dressed in all black—black coat buttoned up to his neck, black trousers, black gloves. But what made my stomach clench was the fedora hat sitting perfectly on his pale, almost bluish head.
He had no eyebrows. No expression. Just vacant, skin-stretched features that made it hard to tell if he was even real. And he was staring directly at me.
I looked away immediately, pretending to scroll through my book as my heart thudded louder with every beat. Maybe he was just a passerby. Maybe he wasn't even looking at me. Still, I didn't want to stand there. I needed to move. To get out of his sight.
I turned on my heel and walked briskly in the opposite direction toward the side of the building where the old gym stood. My shoes clicked against the stone, each step echoing a little too loud, like the sound didn't belong in a place so silent. But as I rounded the corner, my breath caught.
Two more men.
Both in black coats, both wearing the same odd fedoras, and both walking toward me. Their steps were synchronized. Not hurried. Not casual.
Purposeful.
My mouth then went dry. These weren't teachers. These weren't parents. These weren't anyone who belonged here. And they were closing the distance.
Fast.
My instincts screamed before my brain could.
I turned and ran.
I took a small step back, unsure if I was overthinking it. Maybe they were here for a meeting. Or maybe—
A flicker of movement made me turn my head.
More of the men coming from the opposite direction.
Four. No, five. All dressed the same. Black suits. Black ties. Same vacant expressions. Same briefcases. And they were walking toward me. Panic stirred in my chest like a bird fluttering in a cage. They're the same as the man I saw when I was freaking out inside the janitor's closet.
I turned to glance behind me—hoping for someone, anyone—but the courtyard was empty. No cars pulling up, no teachers at the doors. Even the birds that usually nested in the trees above were gone.
I stepped backward, heart racing now, my fingers tightening around the straps of my bag. Something wasn't right. This wasn't a coincidence. I could feel it in my bones. The men kept walking, slow and deliberate, like they had all the time in the world.
Run, my mind whispered.
But before I could move—
FWIP.
A gust of wind brushed past me, sudden and sharp.
I looked up, startled, just in time to see a blur of brown and feathers swoop down from the sky.
It's the owl in my room. The very same owl I had rescued. The same one I had nursed back to health, who watched me like it knew every thought that passed through my mind.
It glided over me, then perched sharply on the low stone column by the gate, talons clinking against the concrete. Its golden eyes locked on mine, wide and alert. And then—though I swear I couldn't possibly have imagined it—I heard a voice. Not out loud. Not through his mind.
But his beak.
"Run, Alice."
I froze.
The owl tilted its head, feathers ruffling in warning.
"Run!"
My legs finally responded. I bolted toward the side of the building, heart slamming in my chest. My shoes clacked against the pavement, echoing off the stone walls. I didn't know where I was going—only that I had to get away. But as I turned the corner—
Wham!
I collided head-on with something solid.
I opened my eyes only to see one of the men. Before I could scream, his arm wrapped around me like steel. In his other hand was the briefcase. Cold metal slammed into my temple.
Crack. Stars burst in my vision.
As I slumped to the ground, vision blurring, I caught one last glimpse of the owl. I could barely hold my gaze steady, but I was trying to get ahold of myself.
I saw the owl flying toward my direction, hovering in midair like a storm caught in stillness, its wings wide as canopies, feathers ruffling in slow, deliberate motion. But those feathers—they began to shrink. Not to the ground, but inward, folding and stretching, as if being rewritten by invisible hands. Its wings then retracted into shoulders. The chest expanded and lengthened, bones reshaping, feathers shedding like whispers in the wind. Where plumage once was, cloth began to ripple into existence—shabby, rough-textured cloth, forming a fraying vest stitched from earth-browns and dust-grays. Beneath it, pants—simple, threadbare, too short for elegance, too wrinkled for vanity—unfolded down lean, wiry legs.
Its talons stretched into long, sinewed hands, skin pale and marked with faint golden streaks, like the echo of stars across flesh. And yet—the head remained. Still unmistakably an owl's. The disk of feathers forming its face remained perfectly intact, staring with wild, eternal wisdom. Its beak glinted in the light like polished obsidian, sharp, curved, and silent. There was no mistaking it. This was not an illusion.
Its body shimmered with a soft sheen, shifting. All of a sudden, the owl then pushed straight at the man who had struck me.
The world spun, tilting like a carnival ride gone wrong, every angle smeared and dizzying. My vision pulsed in and out of clarity, every breath a jagged stitch in my chest. I could still hear the ringing from the blow—sharp, high-pitched, like the aftermath of a firecracker too close to the ear.
But I saw the man in black. Another one of them. He was approaching—slow and deliberate, like he knew I couldn't get away this time. His shoes tapped against the pavement, echoing in the silence. The metal of the briefcase glinted with each step. No rush. No mercy. Just a predator claiming his prize.
Panic clawed its way up my throat. I tried to move with arms trembling beneath me and palms scraping against gravel as I pushed myself up. But my limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. Numb. Heavy. Boneless.
A whimper escaped my lips, helpless and raw. No. I had to stand. I had to.
Somewhere beyond the pain, I saw the ow still mid-shift, no longer just a bird but something far stranger, far greater. It stood tall now, robes of feathers now crude fabric, body humanoid yet crowned with that same round, solemn owl face. The creature turned toward the man, and for the briefest second, our eyes met—mine and its. A flood of something warm swept through me. Not quite words. Not quite emotion. But something protective. Fierce. Ancient.
It turned away from me and lunged toward the man. But I couldn't see what happened next.
I tried to stay upright, clutching the nearest wall, using it to pull myself to my knees. My head pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat, and a hot wetness dripped down my temple. Blood. I knew it. The edges of my vision frayed like old film. Darkness began to crawl inward, a slow suffocation of light.
My hands slipped. I fell again—hard this time—and my body refused to rise. Everything became a blur.
A voice—maybe mine, maybe not—echoed somewhere deep: Get up, Alice. Get up.
But it was too late. The last thing I saw was a blur of feathers colliding with a dark coat… and then—
Black.