Chapter 12 : The Twin Ghosts
The second floor, back corner.
Two desks. Two shadows.
They never spoke.
Not on the first day, or the second, or the twentieth.
Mu Yichen sat by the window.
Han Seri sat by the wall.
A meter apart.
A universe between them.
The class grew used to it.
Other students paired off, made clubs, fought and flirted and fumbled through youth.
But those two?
They were just... there.
No laughter. No drama.
No presence beyond their silence.
By the end of the month, someone whispered a name.
A joke at first.
But it stuck.
"The Twin Ghosts."
"They don't talk. Don't blink. Do they even breathe?"
"Maybe they're dating."
"No way. They look allergic to each other."
"Maybe they're cursed."
Neither Yichen nor Seri reacted.
If they heard it, they gave no sign.
Every lunch break, they vanished.
Mu Yichen would walk to the emergency stairwell behind the gym—quiet, dusty, unused.
He would sit on the fourth step, pull out a plain sandwich and a thermos of tea, and eat slowly, listening to the hum of distant traffic and the clatter of school trays echoing down the hallway.
Han Seri disappeared in the opposite direction.
To the back of the school grounds, past the supply shed, under a gnarled, half-forgotten peach tree whose blossoms had stopped blooming years ago.
She'd lean against the trunk, open her book, unwrap her rice balls, and let the world forget she existed.
They never crossed paths.
Not even once.
But still…
a rhythm began to form.
They walked in sync to class.
Sat like statues.
Turned pages with the same quiet timing.
When the teacher called on someone in their row, both lifted their eyes—then looked back down.
They never looked at each other.
But they were never unaware, either.
One rainy afternoon, the class group chat buzzed with laughter.
Someone had edited a photo, labeling them:
The Twin Ghosts of 2-B
"They eat air, drink moonlight, and haunt the school with dead glares."
It went mildly viral within the grade.
The next morning, someone taped the photo to the classroom wall.
Mu Yichen saw it.
Paused.
Then calmly pulled it down, folded it once, and threw it into the bin.
Han Seri didn't even glance at it.
After school that day, as the clouds broke and golden light hit the concrete,
two silhouettes moved in opposite directions—
one toward the stairwell,
one toward the tree.
They never spoke.
Never waved.
But as they passed at the rear hallway,
Han Seri's hand accidentally brushed his sleeve.
He paused.
She looked at him.
For the first time, their eyes met.
And just for that second—
the world fell quiet.
Not because of love.
Not fate.
Just two people
who knew how it felt
to be unseen.
And they moved on.
As strangers.
But never quite strangers again.