The bell rang at eight, sharp and merciless. Ravenwood’s hallways smelled faintly of dust and ink, the kind of air that clung to paper and bookshelves. Silas moved through the stream of students, silent, his hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands. He didn’t rush. People who rushed drew attention.

  When he reached the classroom, Evan was already in his seat—Silas’ seat, technically. Or at least the one beside it. Evan’s bag was slung carelessly over the back of his chair, one strap nearly touching the floor. He was tapping his pencil against his notebook in an uneven rhythm, staring at the door as if he’d been waiting.

  “You showed up,” Evan said, grinning the moment Silas walked in.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Good morning to you too.”

  Silas sat, setting his notebook neatly on the desk. The grin didn’t bother him so much as the consistency of it. People usually tired of smiling when they got nothing in return. Evan, apparently, hadn’t learned how to give up.

  Ms. Caldwell swept in with her usual clipped precision, a stack of papers tucked under her arm. She didn’t waste words on greetings, just opened the attendance sheet and began.

  Names rolled off her tongue, voices responding one by one. Silas kept his eyes on the scratches in his desk, waiting for the rhythm to falter. And it did.

  “Leah Kate?”

  Silence.

  Ms. Caldwell’s eyes flicked up briefly, scanning the room, then back to the sheet. “Absent.” Her pen scratched the paper, and she moved on.

  No one seemed to notice. Or maybe no one cared. A girl whispered something to the boy beside her, and Evan leaned back in his chair, stretching as if the missing name were irrelevant.

  But Silas noticed. Names meant presence. Absence meant something had changed.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  By mid-morning, the lesson bled into monotony—basic equations written in chalk, Ms. Caldwell’s heels pacing the front of the room. Evan’s pencil tapping returned, this time closer to Silas’ elbow.

  “You always take notes like that?” Evan whispered.

  “Like what?”

  “Perfect lines. No smudges. Looks like you’re writing for a textbook.”

  “I don’t make mistakes.”

  Evan grinned. “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s efficient.”

  “You sound like a machine.”

  “Better than sounding like you.”

  Evan laughed softly, enough that Ms. Caldwell shot him a sharp glance. He straightened instantly, but the smile stayed.

  By lunch, the halls were alive with chatter. The cafeteria buzzed with the same uneven energy every school had—trays clattering, voices rising, the occasional bark of laughter. Silas preferred empty spaces, but Evan blocked the doorway with both arms spread like a barricade.

  “You’re sitting with me,” he said.

  Silas tilted his head. “Are you forcing me to?”

  “It’s an invitation.”

  “Same thing.”

  Still, he didn’t push past. He followed.

  Evan’s table was already half-filled. A sharp-eyed girl with a braid coiled over her shoulder picked at her sandwich while reading a notebook of her own. Across from her, a boy with restless hands drummed his fingers against the tray, as if staying still might kill him.

  “This is Silas,” Evan announced. “He doesn’t talk much.”

  The girl looked up, unimpressed. “Clearly.”

  The boy smirked. “Bet he talks more than you think.”

  Silas sat without replying. He didn’t need to. Silence said enough.

  As they ate, the cafeteria hummed with background noise. Silas’ attention drifted, tuning in to the conversations around them. Fragments floated past—complaints about homework, gossip about teachers, and then—

  “Did you hear about Leah?”

  Two students at the next table leaned in close, voices hushed but not enough.

  “She didn’t come today.”

  “She’s probably sick.”

  “Or ran away. Wouldn’t be the first.”

  Their laughter carried, sharp and careless. Silas’ grip tightened faintly on his fork, the metal scraping against the tray. Evan glanced at him, brow raised, but didn’t comment.

  By the time the bell called them back, the whispers had already shifted to something else. But the name lingered. Leah Carter.

  When Silas left school that afternoon, the streets were the same—wet pavement, flickering lights, voices bleeding into the distance. He walked at the same pace, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, but the silence pressed heavier than before.

  At the apartment, his sister greeted him with the same small smile, the same question about bread, the same warmth that kept the place from feeling empty.

  Later, by the window, Silas sketched her name into his notebook. Leah Kate. A name with no voice behind it.

  He told himself it was irrelevant.

  But he never wrote down things that didn’t matter.