The office air is too still, like a room holding its breath.
Principal Morgan sits behind the desk, back straight, hands folded. Beside her: two strangers.
The first is a woman whose presence feels… deliberate. Mid-thirties, maybe. A smile polished to a mirror. Eyes that don't blink enough. Her coat is the color of wet stone and her perfume smells faintly of old paper.
The second is a young man—young and not. His hair is white, not gray, not dyed—white, catching light like frost. He wears no expression at all, and yet there's the sense of a question in him, quiet and constant.
"Gemma," Principal Morgan says, voice tight. "Thank you for coming. This is Ms. Vale. And this is Mr. Argent. They're… here to observe."
Observe what, she does not say.
Ms. Vale's smile warms without softening. "We've heard quite a lot about you," she says, tone gentle, words hard. "Silence is such a powerful teacher. Sometimes it says more than a mouth ever could."
Mr. Argent doesn't speak. He only watches Gemma, eyes pale as winter water. The kind of gaze that feels like pressure on the inside of the skull, like someone testing doors to see which one is unlocked.
Morgan tries to steer. "They have questions about recent events. Routine inquiries."
"Nothing is routine," Ms. Vale says lightly, still smiling. "Not when old doors start to open again."
She takes a small step closer, head tilted. "Tell me, Gemma—do you ever feel as though the world is listening to you… even when you say nothing at all?"
Gemma stands. Still. No answer. No flicker.
Mr. Argent's focus sharpens, narrowing as if to thread a needle through her gaze. "Interesting," he murmurs, too low for Morgan, not too low for Gemma. "Quiet is a choice. Or a seal."
Ms. Vale hums, delighted. "A seal can break."
The clock ticks. No one breathes.
Gemma lets them finish—every word, every look. When the silence settles again, she turns, opens the door, and leaves without waiting to be dismissed.
In the hallway, Mia is on her feet in an instant. "What happened? Are you okay? Who were they? They looked like villains in a—" She stops herself. Presses her lips together. "Right. You won't say."
Gemma walks. Mia falls into step, talking softly anyway, filling space because someone has to.
They turn the corner and almost collide with Gabriel. He looks wired, eyes searching her face for anything at all. "You good?" he asks, voice rough with worry.
Gemma passes him without breaking stride.
Mia gives Gabriel a helpless look: I tried. He exhales, follows at a distance.
At her locker, Gemma spins the dial. The metal door lifts with a soft groan.
Inside, a single strip of yellowed paper lies across her books. Old ink. Careful hand. A small mark at the bottom that looks like a circle cut by teeth.
She takes the note.
'Non vox sed umbrae docent.
Quae plurimum loquitur, prima tacebit."
(No voice but shadows teach.
She who speaks the most will be the first to fall silent.)
Gemma folds the paper once. Slides it into her pocket.
Across the hall, Mia is still talking to fill the quiet, telling Gabriel she'll wait by the stairs, that she'll save Gemma a seat, that everything is probably fine, right?
Gemma closes the locker.
Her eyes, for a breath, rest on Mia.
Then she looks away. And the hall swallows the sound of the closing door.