Barney was at school again.
Like he'd never left.
Same walk. Same hoodie. Same obnoxious gum-chewing.
He even slapped Hale on the back and grinned:
"You look like a Victorian ghost that flunked algebra."
Everyone laughed.
Hale smiled. Or tried to.
But inside?
He was cold.
Not scared.
Confused.
He had seen Barney die.
Watched the light in his eyes disappear like a candle pulled underwater.
And now—
Here he was.
Alive. Joking. Real.
Too real.
Classes blurred.
Barney was fine.
Hale wasn't.
In English, the ceiling fan above him spun just a little too slow.
Not broken—just… off. Like a secondhand missing time.
In Math, the numbers on the whiteboard shifted between blinks.
Equations rewriting themselves.
9s turning into 6s. Division signs pulsing.
In Biology, Hale snapped a pencil by accident.
He hadn't even noticed gripping it.
At lunch, Barney talked about a new game.
Something horror-themed.
"There's this level where your reflection doesn't blink when you do. Totally messed me up."
Everyone chuckled.
Hale didn't.
He blinked.
And when his eyes opened—
Barney was staring at him.
Just for a second.
But it was too long.
Then—
The smile.
Too wide. Too fast.
Like it was stitched in post-production.
In Art class, Hale sat in the back corner. Alone.
He wasn't drawing.
Just etching lines into the desk with a compass.
Scratch. Cross. Curve. Repeat.
That's when he saw her.
Not walk in.
Just… suddenly there.
Two rows ahead. Left side.
A new girl.
Leaning forward. Head low. Pencil moving in loops.
Nothing strange.
Except—
No one looked at her.
No one said hi.
The teacher never called her name.
Hale blinked.
And her page was covered in concentric circles.
Dark, precise, endless.
Still being drawn. Even though her hand wasn't moving.
He packed his bag and left early.
Muttered something about a headache.
Didn't look at her again.
But as he passed her desk—
She looked up.
Her eyes were cloudy.
Not blind—just… fogged from the inside.
She mouthed three words.
No sound. Just lips.
Words Hale didn't know.
Didn't want to know.
But they lodged in his mind anyway.
Like splinters you don't feel until they fester.
That night, Hale stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
He didn't remember walking there.
He scratched his wrist.
Same spot as before.
No blood.
Just thin skin.
Like wet paper.
He stared at himself.
Exhaled. Waited.
He blinked.
And in the mirror—
He didn't.