The hallway is empty—almost like me. It feels hollow, much like the last stop where I said goodbye to the world I once knew. Only my footsteps echo, as if I'm the only one here who doesn't know where I belong.
And maybe someone is following me. There is something following me that doesn't want me to see the truth.
It's my first day here. His might also belong to him. I check my schedule—history. First floor, right wing. Room 112.
I wish I could run, vanish into the walls like a shadow. But I don't know who here is human and who isn't. So I walk like everyone else. Ordinary. Human. Every sense in me whispers danger.
Something is watching. I can't see it—but it's here. Maybe in the walls. Maybe in my skin.
Then I see him again. The boy from this morning—the one whose eyes seemed to know me before I dared look back. Should I go to him? Or wait? We're both new here—both carrying our weight.
He looks older than the others. Maybe it's because he's quieter. Or it could be because his eyes have seen too much.
His hair is soft chestnut, falling like dark honey across his forehead. His eyes are green, streaked with frost. His skin has an unnatural pallor. Not just human coloring. Something else could happen.
He seems like a character from an adventure novel. Yet, something about him fits in a different story. In his eyes lives the exhaustion of someone who has seen too much, far too young.
He runs a hand through his hair. The movement is calm and precise—as if his body reacts before his heart understands.
His gaze meets mine. Not just a look—one that sees through. It feels as if we already know something about each other, yet we choose silence.
I open the door and follow him into the classroom. The classroom is ordinary, featuring desks, a board, and flickering neon lights. The only empty seat is beside him. I take it.
And just like that, almost every pair of eyes lands on us. Whispers. Curiosity. Speculation.
The teacher walks in. "Wow," someone mutters, "he looks like a movie star."
He is handsome. Tall. Dark hair pulled back in a tidy manner. His eyes are the color of a storm on the horizon. But something about him feels too polished—like a performance.
He writes the name "Billy Jackson" on the board.
"I'm your new history teacher," he says with an effortless demeanor. "I'm new here too, so I hope you'll be patient with me."
I lean toward the boy beside me. "Hey," I whisper. "What's up?"
He shifts his gaze, offering a faint smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm Jace. I'm new too."
"I'm new," I echo. I hesitate, then add, "Maybe… Since we'll be sitting together all year, could we be friends?"
I surprise myself. When was the last time I made a genuine effort to connect with someone?
He's about to answer—but Billy's sharp voice cuts through: "Who's talking back there?"
All heads turn. "Names?"
"I'm Amelia. He's Jace."
Billy scans the list, pauses, then says, "Amelia Varren. Jason Wilder. See me after class." He mutters under his breath, "The office only sent me part of the new student list."
My cheeks burn. But when Jace gives me a small, embarrassed smile, something inside me opens.
And that terrifies me. Too easy. Too warm. It feels as if an unseen force is pulling me in without my consent.
The class drags on. I try to focus—fail. Something about him calms me, and that calmness frightens me the most.
When it ends, we walk together to the teacher's desk. "Please excuse my talking," I say. "I just… wanted to meet someone."
Billy stares too long. My skin prickles. Why?
"That's understandable," he finally says. "The first day after break is always tough. For students—and teachers."
The words are correct, but his tone chills me to the bone. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. The silence afterward is louder than anything.
He turns to Jace. "You're free to go."
Then his gaze lands on me. "Amelia, stay a moment."
Jace pauses at the door. "Do you want me to wait?"
I nod.
His fingers brush mine—a soft touch that sets off a storm inside me. My heart seems to smile back.
"Yes," I whispered. "Please."
He leaves. I stand in front of Billy. On edge.
I don't understand why I ask. Maybe it's the way he looks at me—like he already knows.
"Are you supernatural?"
He pauses. "I'm not sure this place knows where to put me."
His smile is effortless. "You'll learn more about me… in time."
A tremor runs through my hand. He doesn't notice—but I feel it.
When he said "your mother," he didn't ask. He knew.
Outside, Jace is waiting. "It took you a while."
"The teacher asked about Dylan," I lied. "He said it doesn't give me any special treatment."
"Alright."
"What do you like to do?" I asked.
"Boxing. And drawing."
He doesn't look like someone who draws. "I draw too."
He stops. "Why are you blushing?"
"Because… It's uncomfortable. I'm not good at it."
The words slip out unfiltered—like a secret breaking free.
"Maybe you're stronger than you think."
We step out of the library. The afternoon light blinds me for a moment. Reality pushes back in—but inside me, the pages are still open.
"Want a ride?" he asks, pointing at his motorcycle.
I hesitate. In my mind, I say yes. But it remains a thought.
At the edge of the forest, he stops. "See you tomorrow, Amelia."
"What?"
"Are you coming?"
"No thanks."
He shrugs, starts the engine, and drives off.
I stand in the parking lot, silent. Moments later, Sierra's car pulls up.
"Wow. You're glowing," she says.
"Just… an ordinary day."
"Did something happen?"
Oliver may have shown up this morning—but maybe it was only the stories about him that scared me. Not him.
Sierra freezes. Her eyes drift toward the forest, slow and deliberate. "Be careful."
"I'm trying."
At home, I shower. Lotion. A red, apple-colored shirt and black leggings as dark as a raven's wing.
Something feels off. The closet door is open—and I'm sure I closed it.
I walk to my bed.
On my pillow—a letter. It smells like old smoke, as if something has burned. Or someone.
The creased paper seems as if someone whispered into it. Beside it—a single white hair. Thin. Not mine.
No markings. No signature. I know no handwriting—only the scent of danger.
It says, "Don't get close to him."
Simple words—yet they scorch my skin as if they weren't written on paper but on me.
Who was this letter meant for? Jace? Or someone else?
I slip onto the balcony without a sound.
Sierra sits facing the forest, wrapped in quiet.
"This was in my room."
I hand her the letter. She reads it. Her face hardens.
"Not me," she says in a whisper.
Her eyes don't leave the trees. As if someone—or something-is standing there. Waiting.
"It feels like a warning. Not random. Something is coming."
"Who shouldn't I get close to? Maybe… Oliver?"
She shakes her head. "No. I think it's… someone else."
He hasn't shown himself yet. And maybe it's his silence that scares me most.
A breeze runs through me. Not from outside—from within.
The present doesn't feel like a new beginning. It feels old—like someone is trying to rewrite my fate.
Again.