I left the house at the usual time the next morning.
The weather had cleared a little — sunlight sliced through the gap between buildings on the other side of the street and fell in a pale layer across the pavement. Even the air felt cleaner than yesterday. The school gate was already collecting people by the time I arrived, voices and bag straps colliding in that familiar early-morning rhythm. Every day the same — one beat louder would be too much, one beat softer would feel wrong.
I'd just reached the entrance to the building when I saw Ashly standing down the corridor. She spotted me and waved, her expression already slightly suspicious.
"You're early again?" She walked over, half-joking. "Something's going on. Three days in a row. That's not like you."
"I just happened to wake up early."
"Three times in a row?" She narrowed her eyes. "That's not a coincidence. That's a pattern."
I smiled and said nothing. She studied me for another second, then sighed, dropped it, and said, "Come on, or we'll get marked."
We walked to the classroom together. The corridor was busy — people moving in both directions, voices crossing. Ashly walked beside me, one hand absently fixing her slightly uneven fringe, not speaking, like she was thinking about something. Halfway there, she said something, her voice dropping just slightly — not the casual tone she usually used, but the kind that means the words cost something.
"Sometimes I don't really want to go home."
I glanced at her. "Why?"
"I can't really explain it," she said, shrugging lightly. "It just feels... empty. When I get back there's nothing, really. Just empty."
She paused. Then gave a quick, small laugh — like she'd said something too real and wanted to take back the weight of it. "Probably overthinking. Ignore me."
I didn't follow up. She'd already moved on, pushing open the classroom door and walking through. I followed.
The morning moved quickly — the teachers had picked up their pace from the first week, and the boards filled steadily. I kept up, taking notes, trying to hold on to what was being said. Occasionally my mind slipped for a moment, then pulled itself back.
When the last class before afternoon break ended, the teacher was already gathering his materials when he seemed to remember something and looked up. "Those on cleaning duty today — please stay back. Everyone else is dismissed."
I glanced at the schedule. It was my turn.
I let my already-packed bag back down and resigned myself. The room emptied quickly — chairs, footsteps, the sound of conversations drifting into the corridor — until the noise thinned to almost nothing and the classroom went still.
I stood up to get the cloth and broom.
That was when I noticed I wasn't the only one staying.
Noah was still there too. On the other side of the room, moving chairs back into place, one by one, unhurried, not looking up. Not speaking. As if the conversation in the corridor the day before had never happened. I didn't break the quiet either — I just started wiping down desks.
Time moved slowly. The only sounds were the cloth against tabletops, the occasional quiet drag of a chair leg, the shift of afternoon light through the windows, drawing long shadows across the floor. There was a particular quality to the air toward the end of a day — slightly heavy, slightly dim, not uncomfortable, but weighted.
At first I thought it was just tiredness. Normal end-of-day fatigue. I kept going, wiping down desk after desk. But the feeling didn't lift — it pressed in slowly, not physical, but somewhere behind my eyes. I looked up at the board. The chalk words were still there from the lesson, clear enough, but something about the clarity felt slightly wrong — as if the focus were off by a fraction. Something was drifting. I pressed two fingers to my temple and frowned.
The air shifted. Thickened slightly, or felt closer — as if the room had compressed by a degree.
The melody came through.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
Just that one instant. The melody cut in like a needle finding exactly the right place, and for a moment I lost hold of where I was. The board, the light, the air around me — everything softened at the edges, like watercolour run over with a wet brush, colour bleeding outward. I took a step forward and my feet felt uncertain. My vision started going white at the edges. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came from my throat.
Then everything cut out.
I don't know how long it was. Slowly, I opened my eyes.
The ceiling of the infirmary. White, flat, the lights slightly too bright. I blinked a few times before my eyes adjusted. The air carried that thin, even scent of antiseptic — specific enough to tell me immediately where I was. I lay still, my mind in a quiet blank, like something had just been cleared.
"You're awake?"
I turned my head. Noah was sitting in the chair beside the bed, one leg slightly crossed, looking like he'd been there for a while.
"How did I end up here?" My voice came out thin, still carrying that emptiness.
"You almost fell. I brought you." His tone was even — stating a fact.
I sat up slowly, my back against the pillow, my head still faintly light. I rubbed my temple. "How long was I out?"
"About half an hour. The nurse came and checked — she said it's probably fatigue."
I nodded and didn't ask more. The infirmary window was half-curtained, afternoon light edging in along one side, softening the whole room. Occasional footsteps passed in the corridor outside — muffled, like sounds from somewhere else.
"Are you feeling better?"
"A bit still dizzy."
He didn't say anything more. Just sat there, quiet. I looked down at my hands and felt the melody still trailing in my mind — like a string plucked and still vibrating, the string stopped but the resonance continuing.
I hesitated, then said it.
"Have you ever felt like that — something that's already gone, but it just... comes back. Not as a memory. More like it actually happened again."
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."
"Just now, I heard a melody my mum used to hum," I said. "It was clear. Not like something playing inside my head — like it was actually there, beside me."
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze dropped slightly — like he was searching for something, or remembering. After a moment, he said quietly, "My mother was gone early too."
I didn't interrupt.
"She had a habit," he continued slowly, his fingers moving almost imperceptibly. "When she held me, or when I wasn't doing well — she'd lightly touch my earlobe. Not an obvious thing. Just light, almost without thinking. Like she wasn't even aware she was doing it. But for me..."
He paused.
"It felt like safety. Like someone saying — this place is okay. You don't have to be afraid."
The infirmary held no sound. The footsteps in the corridor had gone. The whole space had pulled quiet, quiet enough that what he'd said settled and left an echo.
"After she was gone, for a while I'd still reach up and touch it myself," he said. "Like the feeling was still there. Just staying in a different way."
He looked up at me, his voice a little slower than before, a little softer. "Sometimes it would just come back. Out of nowhere. I don't know why."
I looked down at my hands, fingers pressing slowly together.
"Sometimes I think — what if I could feel it just one more time," I said.
The air settled.
He looked at me. "What if you could?"
I lifted my eyes.
"What if there was a chance — to feel what's already gone, one more time?"