Amy didn't sleep properly.
Every time she closed her eyes, the word resurfaced.
Password.
Not stolen.
Already known.
By the morning, the house felt thinner somehow. Quieter in a way that pressed in.
Chloe sat at the table, scrolling through her phone. Her cereal had gone soft.
"You're pale," Chloe said, not looking up.
"Thanks."
"That wasn't an insult."
Jamie came in a minute later, dragging his hoodie over his head and glanced between them.
"Something else happened?"
Amy hesitated.
She didn't want to say Rowan's name aloud.
It felt like placing a pin in him. Making it official.
"Writing club was... strange," she said instead.
Chloe finally looked up. "Strange how?"
"The prompt. It was about something that doesn't belong to you."
Jamie stilled slightly. "And?"
"And Rowan wrote about passwords."
Chloe frowned. "That could be a coincidence."
"It could," Amy said.
Her stomach disagreed.
At school, she focused on control.
Information first. Panic later.
In English, she waited until the classroom thinned.
"Miss?" she said carefully.
Her teacher looked up. "Yes, Amy?"
"I was wondering... how long files stay on the student drive?"
"Indefinitely, unless they're deleted."
"So even from years ago?"
"Yes." A small pause. "Why?"
"No reason. Just curious."
She turned to leave.
"Amy."
She stopped.
"If you're worried about access," her teacher added, "the system logs activity. It's monitored."
Monitored.
Amy nodded once. "Thank you."
Logged meant timestamps.
Timestamps meant proof.
At lunch, she found herself outside the maths block.
She hadn't planned to walk there.
But she had.
Rowan leaned against the wall, earphones in, gaze unfocused. Not scrolling. Not texting.
Just thinking.
He looked up when he sensed her.
"Are you following me now?" he asked lightly.
"No."
A beat.
"You said your sister didn't leave," Amy said.
He studied her before answering.
"She didn't transfer."
"That's not what I asked."
His jaw tightened — only slightly.
"She stopped coming."
The noise around them blurred for a second.
"Why?"
Students pushed past, laughing, loud and unaware.
Rowan waited until the space thinned.
"Something happened."
Amy felt it before he said the rest.
"What?"
He held her gaze.
"Someone got into her account."
Her breath caught.
"Her school account?"
"Everything," he said. "Email. Documents. Private stuff."
The ground tilted — not enough to fall. Just enough to notice.
"She reported it," Rowan continued. "Nothing came of it."
"Did they find out who?"
"No."
The word didn't echo.
It just stayed.
"When was this?" Amy asked.
"Year 8."
That year pressed in on her memory.
The library computers.
The café upstairs.
The youth group that used to run there.
Before Mrs Carter.
"Did they post anything?" Amy asked quietly.
Rowan's expression shifted.
"Why?"
"Just answer."
A pause.
"Yes."
Her fingers went cold.
"What kind of things?"
"Writing."
Silence opened between them.
"Her writing," he added.
Amy swallowed.
"She stopped after that," Rowan said. "Stopped school. Stopped... most things."
This didn't feel like a coincidence anymore.
It felt rehearsed.
Like something testing the same door twice.
Rowan shifted.
"You're asking a lot of questions."
"So are you."
A longer pause.
Then—
"She said it started small."
Amy's voice barely held. "What did?"
"The edits."
Everything inside her went still.
"Edits?" she echoed.
"Little changes in her drafts," he said. "Words added. Lines moved. Stuff she didn't write."
Amy saw it.
Her document.
Modified 3:16 p.m.
One word at the bottom.
Almost.
She hadn't told him that.
He was watching her carefully.
Not accusing.
Not threatening.
Measuring.
And suddenly she understood—
He wasn't telling her a story.
He was checking for a pattern.
The bell rang.
Neither of them moved straight away.
"Do you think it's the same person?" Amy asked.
Rowan didn't answer.
But silence can be an agreement.
When he finally stepped back, she noticed something she hadn't before.
His hands weren't steady.
Not shaking.
Just not still.
Which meant—
Whatever happened to his sister—
It wasn't finished for him.
And if it was happening again—
Then it wasn't random.
It was repetition.
And someone—
I was still watching.