The first message appeared outside the school's east entrance.
Eli almost missed it—chalk barely visible against the concrete, washed pale by early morning dew. Most students stepped right over it without looking down.
Eli stopped.
The words curved unevenly across the pavement, like someone had written them in a panic.
STOP REMEMBERING.
His stomach dropped.
"Someone's messing around," Jonah said, glancing at it. "Probably some senior prank."
"That's not a prank," Eli said quietly.
As if the city had heard him, a gust of wind rushed through the courtyard. The chalk smudged—but didn't disappear completely. The message resisted erasure.
Throughout the day, Eli found more.
Near the cafeteria doors:
IT SEES YOU.
By the staircase:
TOO MANY QUESTIONS.
The worst one was hidden behind the gym, half-covered by dirt where no one ever walked.
YOU'RE NEXT.
Eli knelt there, heart racing, and touched the chalk. His fingers tingled—warm, like the feathered map had felt.
Someone else remembered.
That night, Eli returned with a flashlight.
The messages were gone.
Every single one.
Except one new word written directly beneath where he stood.
Fresh. Sharp.
Unmistakable.
RUN.
Eli straightened slowly, scanning the empty courtyard. The city lay quiet around him—buildings still, streets calm, pretending nothing was wrong.
But somewhere beneath the concrete and steel, something shifted.
The city wasn't just erasing memories.
It was warning him.
And Eli wasn't sure which was worse: that someone wanted him to stop—
Or that someone wanted him to keep going.