Tuesday came with fog.
It draped over the rooftops, hung low across the power lines, and swallowed the edges of the town until everything felt like it was floating in a dream that refused to end.
Kai walked to school with his collar up and his hands in his pockets. His shoes splashed through shallow puddles left by the rain. Every step sounded louder than it should've. Too loud for how empty the street was.
At the school gates, a crow sat on the post, its feathers slick with dew. It stared at him and didn't move.
kai (flat): "Yeah. Real welcoming."
Classes passed slowly. The weather made the rooms feel colder. The windows fogged with every breath. Students huddled closer in their seats, not talking as much. Even the teachers seemed quieter today.
The clock above the blackboard ticked on.
Kai didn't look at it this time. Not directly. But when the minute hand crept closer to 3:12, he couldn't help but glance up.
The second hand twitched.
Froze.
The room dimmed for a heartbeat.
Then: tick.
A girl at the front of the class blinked, as if she felt it too. But when Kai watched her, she didn't look back.
When the final bell rang, he didn't leave.
He waited by the lockers until the last group of students disappeared down the stairwell. Then he slipped out the side door and headed around the back.
The west wing loomed like a shadow no one wanted to see. Tall, silent, and sealed behind years of dust and silence.
The caution tape was still there, sagging now, one side torn loose from the rusted railing. Kai stepped over it.
The door was still locked, but the window next to it was cracked open—just enough.
kai (under his breath): "Of course it is."
He hesitated. Then climbed the small ledge and pulled himself through.
Inside, the air was stale. Dry. Heavy.
The floorboards creaked beneath his shoes. Dust floated through thin beams of gray light slicing in from the high windows.
Old desks sat pushed to the corners. The walls were lined with faded posters. A torn school calendar hung crooked on a corkboard—its dates stopped at March 2002.
kai: "No one's used this place in twenty years…"
The silence wasn't empty. It pressed against his ears. Like something was holding its breath with him.
He moved down the corridor slowly. Classroom doors lined both sides, most of them slightly open.
One at the end was closed.
The air grew colder as he walked.
kai (quiet): "Why am I doing this?"
He reached the last door and put his hand on the handle.
Then something knocked.
Three slow knocks. From the other side.
kai (stepping back): "Nope."
He turned to leave. Took three steps—then froze.
From behind him came the sound of a chalkboard scraping. A long, screeching drag.
kai (whispers): "Okay…"
He turned back. The door was still closed.
But on the glass pane in the center—covered in dust—was a single handprint.
Fresh. Pale. Pressed from the inside.
Kai backed away slowly. His feet moved before he told them to. The door to the window he entered from was already visible again, glowing with faint afternoon light. He didn't run. But he didn't stop.
By the time he climbed out, the sky had darkened. The fog hadn't lifted.
At dinner, his grandmother noticed the dirt on his sleeve.
grandma: "You've been somewhere you shouldn't have."
Kai didn't answer. He stirred his rice, silent.
grandma: "Stay out of the west wing."
kai (flat): "You knew I went?"
grandma: "I didn't have to. I just know."
She refilled his tea calmly, but her eyes didn't meet his.
grandma: "That place has things in it that don't forget."
kai: "Things?"
grandma (quietly): "Some memories are heavier than others."
That night, Kai sat at his window long after the lights were off. The fog hadn't left the town. It pressed against the glass like it was alive.
He didn't know what he saw back there. Or what made that knock. Or how the handprint appeared.
But something was in that hallway. And it knew he was there.