The classroom was quiet in that particular winter way—thick with muffled voices and the soft whir of the heater. Outside, snow rested gently on the window ledge, and frost crept in delicate webs along the glass. Every so often, a breeze would push flurries from the bare branches outside, sending them tumbling like feathers through the pale sky.
Ronell sat at her desk, posture straight, pencil in hand. But her notes had thinned into idle scribbles. The words on the board blurred at the edges. She'd long stopped paying attention.
Her mind was elsewhere—circling.
Moore hadn't waited for her this morning. No knock on her door. No footsteps in the hall. By the time she reached the kitchen, he was already gone, his bowl in the sink, the door half-closed behind him. And lately, that felt like a pattern.
She wasn't angry. Not really. But something about the quiet between them had started to ache.
A voice near the front of the class laughed too loudly. Someone passed a folded note. The teacher's chalk scratched the board in slow, even strokes.
And then—without warning—Ronell's eyes shifted.
To her.
Near the back of the classroom, a few desks away, a girl sat alone. Straight-backed. Still. Her hair was long and black, and there was something about her posture—too calm, too composed for someone barely noticeable.
Ronell had seen her before, hadn't she? Once or twice. Or maybe more. Always near the edges of things. Always alone. She couldn't remember her name. Couldn't remember her ever speaking.
Their eyes met.
It was brief—less than a moment. But something in Ronell's stomach fluttered, unexpected and sharp.
Yellow.
Not amber. Not hazel.
Yellow.
Her chest tightened.
But when she blinked, the girl had already looked away, returning to her notebook with quiet grace. As if nothing had passed between them at all.
Ronell tried to brush it off. Told herself it was just the sunlight. A trick of the cold-glazed window.
And yet—
She found herself glancing back.
Just once more.
The girl's hand moved delicately across the page. Her face unreadable. Her presence like a whisper in a dream—soft, but impossible to ignore.
Ronell turned back to her notes. Her pencil hovered, unmoving. The chalk on the board had changed topics. The noise around her returned.
But something had shifted.
Something small.
Something watching.
---
The bell rang.
But Moore was already moving — slipping through the side doors of the building before the cafeteria could fill with noise and bodies and chatter he couldn't bear to sort through.
The cold bit at his cheeks as he stepped outside. Snow crunched under his boots in that satisfying, steady way that helped him feel grounded. Alone. Untouched by the noise of the world.
He made his way to the tree.
Their tree.
It stood bare now, stripped of its blossoms, its bark dark with frost and the weight of winter. But it still welcomed him — the way old places do, with a quiet that felt personal.
And she was already there.
Leaning against the trunk like she belonged to it, arms folded across her chest, hair long and black as ink against the snow. Her boots barely left prints behind her. She didn't say anything at first.
Neither did he.
He slowed his pace, breath forming little clouds in the air, and came to stand a few feet away. The wind played with the edges of his coat.
She glanced at him — a sideways look, sharp and unreadable.
But she didn't leave.
So he sat. Cross-legged in the snow, back resting against the roots. The cold sank in through the fabric, but he didn't care. It felt real.
"I thought I might be imagining you," he said finally.
She shrugged. "Maybe you are."
A pause.
Then, softer—more personal: "You keep showing up."
"And yet you keep coming," she replied.
Her tone was simple. Not smug. Just… true.
His breath caught slightly, and when he exhaled, it came with a laugh — barely there, but undeniably his.
He didn't even realize he was smiling until the warmth touched his face.
They didn't talk about what she was. Or who she might be. Or why her eyes sometimes still flickered gold.
They didn't need to.
The silence between them wasn't empty anymore.
It was something else.
Something like trust.
---
The sun was already beginning to dip, its golden light cutting through the tall windows of the school library in long, slanted beams. Dust danced in the air, and the hush of the room wrapped around her like a thin sheet—cool and quiet.
Ronell sat with a book open in front of her, but her eyes weren't on the pages.
Across the room, the girl sat at the far table again. Alone. As always.
She wasn't reading.
Just… sitting.
A pen loosely held between her fingers. A notebook open but untouched.
Ronell's gaze lingered, though she told herself it was casual curiosity.
But something about the girl's presence felt out of place.
Her posture was too still, her movements too calculated—as if she didn't quite belong in her body. Like someone rehearsing how to look human.
She didn't tap her pen, didn't shift in her seat, didn't glance around the room like everyone else did when trying to seem occupied.
Ronell pretended to turn a page, eyes flicking back up quickly.
The girl was looking at her.
For just a second.
Those eyes—golden-yellow, impossibly bright in the dim afternoon light—met Ronell's. No reaction. No smile. No flinch.
Just a gaze.
And then she turned away, slowly, as if nothing had happened.
Ronell's heart gave a quiet thud against her ribs.
She closed her book.
Rising from her seat, she wandered over to a pair of girls chatting softly near the non-fiction shelves.
"Hey," she asked, casual but purposeful. "That girl over there—do you know her name?"
They followed her glance.
One girl frowned, thoughtful. "Who?"
"The one by the window," Ronell clarified. "Black hair. Sitting alone."
They both looked again.
"Oh… her," one finally said. "I don't know. I've seen her around, but… I thought she was in second-year?"
"No," the other added, confused. "I think she's new. Isn't she?"
Ronell blinked. "She's in our class."
A pause.
"Wait… really?"
Ronell didn't answer.
She just turned back toward the table.
The girl was gone.
No sound, no footsteps. Just an empty chair and an open notebook—still blank.
Something tightened in her chest.
As she walked out of the library, the golden light had already begun to fade.
And behind her, the last rays of sun caught on a sliver of black fur nestled against the far window ledge.
But when she turned to look—
There was nothing there.
---
The night had gone still, wrapped in white.
Outside, fresh snow clung to the rooftops and branches like sifted sugar, softening every edge. The world felt muted, as though the sky had pressed a hush over everything.
Moore's room was dark, save for the pale blue spill of moonlight across his floor. He pushed open the window a few inches, letting the cold seep in. It kissed his skin, sharp but grounding. The air smelled like winter—ice, woodsmoke, and something old.
He leaned on the windowsill, arms folded.
And there she was.
Sitting on the wall.
The black cat.
Unmoving, unblinking. Her yellow eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem to glow. Like mirrors held up to something just out of reach.
He didn't call to her. Didn't blink.
He simply watched.
And she watched back.
He wondered, not for the first time, if she was guarding something—or waiting.
From the room across the hall, light still glowed behind a door cracked open.
Ronell sat cross-legged on her bed, a pen in one hand, her notebook balanced on her knees. Her desk lamp cast a soft pool of amber light, and the radio played quietly in the background—barely more than a hum.
She should've been doing homework.
Instead, she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts tangled in quiet unrest.
That girl.
Those eyes.
They had followed her through the day—through the library, through her thoughts, even now, here, in the dark.
A name surfaced, uninvited.
She didn't know where it came from.
But it felt… right.
May.
She wrote it at the top of the page in small, precise letters.
Then paused.
Her pen hovered a moment, then moved again—almost on instinct.
The girl with yellow eyes.
She stared at the words for a long time.
Then quietly closed the notebook, letting her hand rest on its cover.
Across the snowy yard, Moore's gaze hadn't moved.
And the cat still watched.