The bus rattled with every bump in the road. The drone of the engine blended with the students' voices. Some talked as if they wanted to fill every inch of space, while others barely murmured to the ones beside them. I didn't say a word.
The glass was cold against my forehead. Outside, dawn was barely brushing the warehouses, the storage yards, and the corroded fences we left behind. Inside, the bus smelled of damp fabric and disinfectant.
"They say the island has dorms like luxury hotels."
"Really? That's definitely a rumor."
"I heard they won't even let us use our phones."
The chatter didn't stop. It didn't matter what they were saying—what mattered was to say something. No one wanted to be the only one in silence.
A couple of rows ahead, a tall boy kept turning around to chat with the one behind him, his voice filling the aisle. Across from him, a girl pretended to read, though her eyes drifted again and again toward the conversations. Everyone was showing what they wanted to hide.
The driver's voice came over the speaker:
"Last stop. Get ready to get off."
The atmosphere shifted immediately. Backpacks thumped against seats, zippers opened, and the students stood up in needless haste. The bus slowed, and the smell of the sea seeped in even before we saw it.
When the vehicle finally stopped, the metallic hiss of the brakes was followed by a rush of footsteps and the rustle of fabric. Backpacks were snatched up, and the murmur turned into a clumsy scramble to be the first out.
The air changed the moment my foot hit the ground. Cold, salty, sharp enough to clear even the sleepiest heads. The pier groaned under the weight of so many feet, wet wood creaking with every step.
And there it was, waiting at the end: the ship. White, imposing, with three decks and oval windows. On its funnel, the institution's emblem—somewhere between an eye and a compass, depending on how you looked at it.
"Line up!" ordered a man in a dark jacket, holding a device in his hand. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of someone who never had to repeat himself.
We lined up. Backpacks shifted from shoulder to shoulder, students whispering theories about the cards or joking nervously.
When my turn came, I handed mine over: D-27.
The supervisor scanned it. A green light blinked on the device.
"Devon Clarke."
"Present and accounted for," I replied with a calm smile.
He glanced up at me, surprised for a second, then nodded.
"Next."
I stepped aside, giving way with a slight nod. Nothing much, but enough to leave a different impression than the stiff, silent ones who'd gone before me.
The line moved toward the gangway connecting to the ship. The metal swayed with each step. Some clung to the railing as if they might fall into the water; others walked exaggeratedly upright, pretending they weren't bothered.
The smell of salt was stronger here, mixed with fuel and rust. Next to me, a boy stumbled and bumped into my shoulder.
"Sorry, I'm not used to this kind of thing."
"It's fine," I said, smiling as if it didn't matter at all. "Happens to anyone."
He gave a nervous laugh and hurried on.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted again. Our footsteps echoed hollow against the metal, and the air carried the smell of fresh disinfectant trying to hide the rust. The hallways were decorated with framed photos of past classes: black and white portraits, perfect uniforms, serious faces that seemed to watch us as we passed.
An attendant led us to the main deck. There, the group quickly scattered—some clustered in small circles, others explored staircases or doors as if already claiming their own territories.
I chose to step outside. I pushed open a metal door and felt the wind hit me full on. The murmur of conversations broke apart into fragments carried away by the sea.
"Nice ship, huh?" said a voice to my right.
It was a boy my age, broad-shouldered and athletic, with light brown hair tousled by the wind. His bright green eyes matched the easy grin that seemed to come to him without effort. The card F-11 hung from his neck, and he walked with the relaxed confidence of someone who wanted to be liked from the very first day.
"It has its charm," I answered, returning the smile.
"I'm Kael. You?"
"Devon."
"Think the numbers mean anything?"
"Probably," I said lightly. "Though maybe the fun part is figuring it out."
Kael let out a short laugh and hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder.
"Hope it's not about exams. Getting in here was hard enough—I'm not going through all that again."
"Was it that bad?" I asked.
"A bit, yeah." He ran a hand through his hair as if reliving the tension. "Interviews, weird tests, questions that felt more like psychology than school. I don't know what they saw in me, but I guess they liked it."
"That says something already," I commented. "Maybe it wasn't about answering 'right,' but answering as you are."
Kael looked at me for a moment, surprised by the thought, then grinned.
"Could be. If it's about personality, then I'm safe. I get along with everyone."
"That's useful in a new place," I said. "You never know who you'll need close by."
He nodded, and we walked a few more minutes together, chatting about trivial things: sports, the trips everyone had taken to get here, the rumors about the island. When another group called him from up ahead, Kael waved quickly and I took the chance to continue on my own.
Farther along, near the railing, a girl was leafing through a black notebook. Her jet-black hair, shoulder-length, whipped around in messy strands that sometimes covered her face. Pale skin highlighted the contrast, and her gray eyes moved calmly over the pages as if searching for something specific. She held the notebook close to her chest each time she turned a page, as though it were too personal to show anyone else.
"Studying already?" I asked, stepping closer and resting my arms on the railing.
She glanced at me from the corner of her eye.
"Just reviewing."
"Sounds like you're prepared," I said with a half-smile.
"Or nervous," she replied, snapping the notebook shut with a soft thud.
I turned my head toward her, meeting her eyes.
"Nerves aren't bad. Sometimes they're what keep you awake."
She held my gaze for a second before letting out a short laugh.
"Then I guess I shouldn't hide them."
"Do as you like," I said calmly, "but some people will notice anyway."
She didn't answer this time. With a sigh, she lowered her eyes and rested her arms on the railing, staring out at the sea. I mirrored her, standing at her side.
"My name's Lyra."
"Devon." I dipped my head slightly. "Nice to meet you."
"Do you always talk to strangers like this?"
"Not all of them. Only the ones who seem interesting."
Lyra arched an eyebrow, surprised, but didn't say more. The faint smile that escaped her was enough.
We spoke for a few more minutes, nothing deep: where we were from, how strange it was to board without knowing anything, even a light comment about the food they might serve onboard. Her answers were short, but not curt. She didn't seem like someone used to talking much, but she didn't avoid it either.
Then a short bell rang three times. The ship trembled beneath our feet as the moorings were released. The deck shook with the initial push of the engine.
The pier began to shrink behind us. The city blurred into the fog as the horizon opened wide ahead.
Lyra held the notebook against her chest.
"Guess there's no turning back now."
"No," I said, staring out at the sea. "Now we just have to see where it takes us."
Seagulls wheeled above us as if unsure whether to follow or return to land. The air was colder now, but also cleaner.
In a place full of voices, silence never disappears. It just learns how to hide.
The journey had only begun.