The school didn't sound like a school anymore.
The morning bell rang, but fewer than half the students showed. Desks sat empty, their owners' bags still dangling on hooks like ghosts. In the halls, lockers yawned open, untouched for days. The absence itself was loud.
During first period, the silence broke.
Mr. Hayward—History—stood at the front of class with trembling hands. He was usually strict, a man whose voice carried like gravel. But today, his lesson crumbled into whispers.
He dropped the chalk twice, then turned suddenly, eyes wet, and slammed his palms against the desk. "If anyone knows anything—anything at all—about these disappearances, for God's sake…" His voice cracked. "…say it. Please. I can't stand walking past those empty chairs."
No one moved.
Every gaze drifted, inevitably, toward the back of the room. Toward Gemma.
She sat like stone, unmoved, pen gliding neatly across paper. Not even a flicker betrayed she'd heard him.
The tension was unbearable. A girl near the front whispered, loud enough to carry: "She knows something."
Another voice, sharper: "Why won't she talk? Why's she even here?"
The words spread like sparks in dry grass. By the time the bell rang, whispers had thickened into stares that followed Gemma down the hallway.
Aveline was waiting.
She leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes glinting too brightly. "Well, well," she purred, her voice laced with a kind of manic sweetness. "Looks like they're starting to see it. Starting to see you."
Gemma walked past her without pause.
But Aveline followed, voice low and jagged. "How long can you hold it in, Gemma? Hmm? How long before silence cracks you open?" She leaned close enough that her hair brushed Gemma's shoulder. "They think you're cursed. But I know better. Don't I?"
For a flicker—just a flicker—Aveline faltered. Her smirk twitched, her eyes darted, as if Gemma's blank stare had sliced straight through her.
She pulled back quickly, recovering her tone. "Don't keep me waiting."
By lunchtime, the whispers had reached fever pitch. Students sat in clusters, their eyes glued to Gemma's every movement as if she might suddenly stand and announce where the missing had gone.
Gabriel sat across the cafeteria, fists clenched around his tray. He wanted to storm over, drag her away, shield her from the accusations. But he couldn't ignore the other thought gnawing him raw: What if they're right? What if she really does know?
The air was thick with fear, and Gemma—silent, steady, unreadable—was its center.