It was colder past the main corridor.
Colder than it should've been.
Aoi kept walking.
Her footsteps made soft sounds on the vinyl floor. They didn't echo as much here. As if the building had started absorbing sound.
The map in her head—what little she remembered—told her B-Wing was to the left, past the music rooms and a shuttered vending machine. She used to wait there for Ayaka after class. Sometimes. When Ayaka remembered.
When they still talked.
---
The music hallway was darker. The windows were grimy, streaked with dust and dried rain. One of the classroom doors was half open, but she didn't stop to look inside.
She wasn't here to investigate.
She just wanted to see the classroom.
---
A soft breeze stirred from behind.
No windows were open.
She turned around.
Nothing.
A faint hum came from the overhead lights. Then, a flicker. Not enough to go dark. Just enough to feel like something was noticing her.
She kept walking.
---
Class 2-B.
The nameplate was still on the door. Faded. Crooked.
Her heart gave a quick, dumb little jump.
She slid the door open slowly.
It resisted at first, like it hadn't been moved in a while.
Inside, the desks were still arranged in perfect rows. Some had textbooks on them—yellowed, their covers curled upward. There was dust, but not as much as she expected. Not three years' worth.
It smelled like—
Chalk.
And something faintly metallic.
---
She stepped in.
Third row from the back. Window seat. Ayaka's desk.
Aoi reached out, slowly, and pulled open the desk drawer.
It wasn't empty.
There was a folded piece of paper.
She took it out, careful not to tear it. The paper had no name. No date. Just four handwritten words in black ink:
> "Do not stay late."
---
Behind her, something creaked.
She turned—too fast.
The classroom door was closing.
Not slamming—just quietly swinging shut.
Aoi stepped back toward it, hand reaching for the knob—
—but it clicked. Locked.
---
She checked her phone.
No signal. No service. No Wi-Fi.
Nothing but the time: 16:44
Then—
The intercom crackled.
She froze.
White noise spilled from the speaker.
Then, a voice—soft, whispering, indistinct.
Too low to understand.
But it was speaking.
And it was calling roll.