The courtyard was almost empty. Someone had left a broom leaning against the edge of the stairs, and the sky was beginning to turn silver at the edges. Isabelle sat on a stone bench with her hands tucked under her thighs, watching the door.
Isaac walked past her without saying anything.
"You forget something?" she asked.
He didn't stop. "Didn't feel like going home yet."
Isabelle stood up. She didn't ask if she could come. He didn't say no.
The back door to the school opened easier than it should've. The frame was warped from weather, and the lock never really worked to begin with. Isaac pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped through like he'd done it before.
Most of the lanterns had been extinguished. A few glowed behind classroom glass, faint and uneven, left burning by accident or out of habit. They didn't illuminate the halls as much as they cut into them — throwing warped shadows across the floor that seemed to stretch just a little too far.
Inside, it was warmer, but it wasn't the kind of warmth that helped. The air smelled like old wood and floor polish. The kind they used in the chapel. Clean, but not fresh. Scent that lingered.
Isabelle brushed a cobweb off her sleeve. "Smells like the basement."
Isaac let out a quiet huff through his nose. "Better than the dorms."
He kept walking. She followed.
The hallway stretched ahead of them, dim and long. Their footsteps made dull taps against the floor, but the sound didn't travel right. It bounced back too fast, clipped at the edges — like the building was swallowing it before it could settle.
Isabelle stuck to the right side, tracing her fingers along the wall. She tapped each panel with her knuckle as they passed, a rhythm only she knew. Isaac walked in the center, shoulders slightly hunched, hands in his pockets.
They passed through the old wing. The floor dipped lower here. The walls curved inward slightly, like the building had settled unevenly over time. There were photos nailed to the wood — class pictures from a decade ago or longer. Rows of children in identical clothes, all facing forward, not a smile among them.
Most of the faces had faded to the color of paper.
Isaac paused at one frame that had slipped sideways. He adjusted it until it was straight.
"You're gonna mess up the ghosts' system," Isabelle said behind him.
He tilted his head. "They should've hung it better."
She smiled and kept tapping the panels.
One of the classroom doors was cracked open.
Isaac glanced back at her once, then pushed it with two fingers and stepped inside.
It wasn't anything special. Just desks, a chalkboard, and cold air that clung to the ankles. One of the windows had been left open a little too far, and the curtain swayed in lazy arcs, catching just enough breeze to move but never enough to settle.
The chalkboard still held a few chalk lines, dull under the low light. Most had been wiped away, smeared into grey dust. But one sentence near the bottom stayed sharp, like no one had tried to erase it at all.
Isabelle leaned in to read it. "They always leave the worst ones up."
Isaac dropped into a desk near the window and leaned back until it creaked beneath him.
Isabelle stepped behind the teacher's desk, turned the chair with her foot, and sat. It spun halfway, then stopped on its own.
"You ever think about teaching here?" she asked.
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You think I'd survive a room full of me's?"
"No. But I think you'd try anyway."
He smiled a little. "I'd last a week."
"Longer than I would," she said. She looked up at the ceiling. "You don't talk too much. That's something."
"You're saying I'd teach by writing things down and hoping no one asked questions?"
"I'm saying you'd write something weird on the board and pretend that was the lesson."
Isaac leaned back farther in the seat, tapping a finger on the desk.
"That's not teaching," he muttered. "That's bluffing."
"Better than the ones who believe what they're saying."
A soft knock echoed somewhere in the hallway.
They both paused.
Probably just the wind moving something. Or a door shifting with the weight of the building. The kind of sound you didn't mention out loud because then it became real.
The curtain by the window lifted, slow and aimless, then dropped again.
Isabelle didn't look away from it. "I've been thinking about joining the church."
Isaac sat forward again. "Since when?"
"A while," she said. "Not to preach or stand at the altar or anything like that. Just to be around. Help with the gardens, the food, prayers. And I'd get to see her more."
Isaac didn't ask who she meant.
"She's different now," Isabelle continued. "Not in a bad way. Just quiet. Like she knows something she's not supposed to say."
Another faint sound. Wood groaning. A shift in the floorboards outside the room.
He didn't move.
"She's going to ascend," Isabelle said. "Soon. Everyone knows it."
"You really want to be part of that?"
Isabelle hesitated. "I just don't want to miss her."
Isaac looked down at his hands. His nails were dirty. There was a faint bruise across one of his knuckles. He picked at it without thinking.
"I get it," he said. "But you're making a long choice to solve a short one."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
She looked over at him.
"You think being around her for a few more weeks is worth changing the rest of your life."
"It's not like they'd force me to stay."
"They wouldn't have to."
Isabelle crossed her arms. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because you're not thinking straight," he said, louder than he meant to. Then, quieter: "And because I've seen what happens when people make themselves small just to feel close to someone they're already losing."
The silence after was uncomfortable. Not angry, not cold—just too full.
Outside the classroom, something shifted. Not loud. Just a dry scrape, like a chair leg dragged across stone.
They both turned toward the door.
"You heard that," Isabelle whispered.
Isaac was already standing.
He didn't wait. He stepped into the hallway. Isabelle followed, just behind him.
The hall was darker than before. The window at the far end was pale with moonlight, but everything else had dulled. The wood grain on the floor looked stretched, unfamiliar.
Down the corridor, near the corner, a single chair had been placed against the wall.
Crooked-legged. Old. Facing inward.
It hadn't been there before.
Isabelle stopped walking.
"Was someone in there?" she asked.
Isaac didn't answer.
He just stood still, staring at the chair like he expected it to move again.
It didn't.
"I wouldn't…" Isabelle murmured. Her hand lifted, hesitated mid-air.
But Isaac was already moving. He stepped forward, slow but sure, and lowered himself into the seat.
He sat.
And waited.