The disappearance of Zoë hung like a curse over the school. Students whispered in corners, rumors breeding faster than truth, but the teachers gave no answers. The walls themselves seemed to hold secrets, and every shadow felt heavier than before.
Gabriel moved through the halls, restless. His eyes flicked to every door, every corner, half-expecting a note waiting for him in his locker again. But it was empty. Too empty.
That night, Zoë's mother stormed back into the school demanding they search again. But her father… he lingered. His eyes kept finding Gemma whenever she passed. That same fear. That same recognition. He avoided speaking, avoided looking too long, but Gabriel caught it—saw the way his hands trembled when Gemma was near.
At home, Lucy was restless, pacing. She snapped at Gabriel for the smallest things, while George watched Gemma in silence, almost protectively.
But it was when Gabriel woke at midnight that the real horror began.
The house was silent. Too silent. And then—
A whisper.
Not from his room. Not from the hall. But from Gemma's room.
He froze at his door, listening. He couldn't make out the words, only the rhythm — like someone speaking in a language he wasn't supposed to hear.
And then— footsteps. Light, deliberate, moving down the hallway.
When Gabriel peeked, the corridor was empty. But Gemma's door was open.
Inside, she sat by her window, staring out into the night.
And on the glass, written in a foggy handprint that wasn't hers, were the words:
"She isn't gone. She's waiting."