Gabriel didn't sleep. He couldn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the carved words, raw and jagged, echoing in his skull: She remembers. Run.
And then Gemma's eyes in that moonlit hall.
Not empty. Not blank. But knowing.
By morning, his skin buzzed with restless energy. His mother was already pacing the kitchen, muttering under her breath about police reports and "the curse." His father sat stone-still at the table, arms folded, daring anyone to break his silence.
Gemma came down last. She moved like a shadow, her night's sleep—or lack of it—impossible to read. She took her seat, unfolded a napkin, and began to eat as though nothing in the world was wrong.
Gabriel's chest tightened. The words itched at his tongue.
What do you remember, Gemma? What is it you're not saying?
But George's glare burned across the table, pinning him silent.
By midday, Gabriel couldn't hold it in anymore. He skipped class, ducking into the school library instead. The building was half-empty now, rows of abandoned bags and jackets still waiting for owners who weren't coming back.
He spread his notes across the table—scraps of newspaper, screenshots of missing posters, and the photo of the chalk writing from the janitor's closet. The Latin phrase stared back at him, cold and certain: The silence holds the blood.
But the phrase from the floorboards gnawed deeper: She remembers. Run.
If Gemma remembered, then… remembered what?
His hand shook as he scribbled questions into his notebook:
Was Zoë taken for the same reason?
Who is the white-haired man?
Why does everyone say it's Gemma's fault?
Why won't she speak—can't she, or won't she?
The sound of a chair scraping nearby snapped his head up.
Ryan.
His childhood friend stood a few feet away, face tight, fists clenched. "What the hell are you doing here, Gabriel? You think you're the savior? You think you're gonna solve this with your stupid notes?"
Gabriel tried to shove the papers into a pile, but Ryan snatched one—Zoë's missing poster—and held it up like a weapon.
"You know something," Ryan hissed. "You've been sneaking around since she vanished. You've been hiding things. Tell me what you know."
Gabriel's mouth went dry. "I don't know anything."
"Liar." Ryan slammed his palm onto the table. His voice cracked with something rawer than anger—fear. "They're gone, Gabe. All of them. And she's still here. Sitting in class like nothing happened. Why her? Why always her?"
Gabriel froze. Ryan's eyes burned with the same terror their mothers carried.
And in that moment, Gabriel realized something chilling.
Ryan wasn't just accusing Gemma.
He was begging Gabriel to admit it. To say the thing no one else dared.
But Gabriel couldn't. Not yet.
He tore the poster from Ryan's hand, shoving it back into his notebook. "If you want answers, help me look. But don't you dare lay this on her."
Ryan's jaw worked, teeth grinding, but he didn't push further. He turned sharply, storming out, his footsteps echoing like a countdown.
Gabriel sat there alone, breath ragged. The weight of silence pressed harder than ever.
Gemma remembered something. He was sure of it now.
And if he didn't figure it out soon, Ryan—or someone else—would break first.