The next morning was drenched in a pale mist.
Claire sat alone on a bench near the school's back courtyard, her fingers tightening around the thermos of tea she'd barely sipped. Students moved like ghosts behind her, their chatter quieter than usual, as if everyone was still carrying the weight of Sam's death like a fog.
She hadn't told anyone what Randy admitted the night before — about Sam living with him, about their history. It didn't sit right. None of it did.
And then—she saw him.
Miko.
He approached slowly, his hoodie pulled over his head, eyes darker than usual. When Claire looked up and met his gaze, she immediately knew:
Something had changed.
He sat beside her, silent at first.
Then he said it, low and steady:
"Claire… I think I know who killed Sam."
Her body froze.
"What?" Her voice was a whisper, fragile.
"I mean, I don't know for sure," Miko added, eyes scanning the courtyard. "But I think it's someone close. Someone who knew how much Sam meant to you. Someone who had a reason to shut him up."
Claire turned fully toward him. "Miko, you can't just say that without—"
He looked at her, sharp now. "Sam told me things, Claire. Before he died."
"What kind of things?"
"Things about what happened years ago — to you. Things you still don't remember. He was scared. Not for himself — for you. He said someone from your past was trying to rewrite the story. To make you feel safe. But it was all just... a setup."
Claire's chest tightened. "Who?"
Miko hesitated, jaw locked. "He didn't say it outright. But I asked. I pressed. He wouldn't name the person. But the way he talked… it was someone who used to control everything. Someone who was always there — too perfect, too composed. Someone who had everything to lose if the truth came out."
He met her eyes again.
"I think he was talking about Randy."
Claire inhaled sharply, blinking.
"No," she whispered. "No, Miko… Randy would never—he's not like that."
"Isn't he?" Miko asked quietly. "He didn't tell you about Sam, did he? About how close they were? About the fact that Sam lived in his house for years?"
Claire didn't answer.
Miko continued, voice calm but unrelenting. "Randy's always been two steps ahead of everyone. Even Sam. Especially you. And Sam knew something about what happened the night you… fell. Something that made Randy panic."
Claire's heart beat like a war drum. She stared ahead, the world spinning a little.
"I asked Randy," she said, voice breaking. "Last night. I asked him about Sam. And he… he said he didn't hurt me. That he just wanted to protect me."
Miko's silence was chilling.
"And you believe that?" he finally asked.
Claire didn't know.
Part of her still wanted to — that part that remembered Randy's kindness, his gentleness, the way he waited for her to trust again.
But another part — deeper, older, buried — remembered something else.
A voice shouting behind her.
A pair of shoes slipping on wet tile.
A hand reaching too late.
And someone standing too still.
"I don't know what to believe," she whispered.
Miko reached into his pocket and handed her something folded — a small, crumpled slip of paper. She hesitated, then opened it.
It was a note.
Written in rushed, shaky handwriting.
"If anything happens to me, it's not an accident. Check the phone. I backed it up. Someone doesn't want her to remember. –S"
Claire's hands trembled.
"Where's the phone?" she asked.
"That's what we're going to find out," Miko said, standing.
Because now it wasn't just grief.
It was justice.
And if Randy had anything to do with Sam's death —
Claire would no longer protect a ghost in disguise.
She would find the truth.
Even if it shattered everything.
The sun refused to shine that day.
The sky over Jakarta was an endless stretch of gray, thick with low clouds that threatened rain but held it back — as if even the heavens couldn't bring themselves to interrupt the quiet weight of the morning.
Claire stood at the edge of the cemetery, her black dress brushing against her knees as the wind moved through the tall grass. Miko stood beside her, silent, hands in his pockets. Vienna was a few steps away, eyes red but dry now, clinging to a tissue with trembling fingers. Other classmates gathered in hushed clusters around them, all dressed in dark, respectful tones. A sea of black and navy, solemn faces and bowed heads.
Randy arrived later than the others.
Claire didn't look at him right away. She felt his presence — the shift in the air, the way the whispers around them quieted — but she kept her eyes on the simple coffin in front of her.
It was plain, unadorned. Just as Sam would've wanted.
The ceremony was short. His mother stood like stone, barely holding it together, surrounded by two relatives Claire didn't recognize. There were no speeches here — not in the cemetery. Only a few soft prayers, the rustle of leaves, and the raw silence of loss.
When the final rose was placed on top of the coffin, the students began to quietly leave. But Claire lingered. So did Miko, and then — unexpectedly — Randy stepped forward.
He approached Sam's mother with a bowed head, whispered something Claire couldn't hear, and handed her a folded letter. She didn't look at him as she took it, but she nodded. That was all.
And then they left the cemetery behind.
The next day, the school held the official memorial.
It was in the auditorium — every seat filled with students and teachers. On the stage stood a large photo of Sam: a soft smile, his usual calm gaze, dressed in his uniform jacket from last year's academic competition.
The principal gave the opening speech, voice full of practiced grief.
"We lost not only a student, but a quiet light in our school community. Samuel Ananda was thoughtful, humble, and kind. He helped others without asking for recognition, and he carried burdens we may never fully understand. His absence is deeply felt — and always will be."
Claire stared at the floor.
Around her, students sniffled, wiped tears. Vienna held her breath like she didn't dare cry again. Miko was unreadable.
But Claire…
Claire's heart was burning.
Not just with grief.
But with questions.
After the principal, two teachers spoke, recalling Sam's quiet brilliance, his poetry journal, his volunteer work with the art club. Then a final note was read — supposedly written by Sam himself during one of his counseling sessions. It was reflective, hopeful, full of soft words about forgiveness and growth.
But Claire knew something was wrong.
That wasn't his voice.
That letter was too clean.
Too perfect.
Like it had been rewritten to shape a version of Sam that suited someone else's narrative.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't.
Because inside her notebook — the one now hidden inside her backpack — she had copied Sam's real note. The one Miko gave her. The one that said:
"If anything happens to me, it's not an accident."
That day, as the school mourned and the stage lights dimmed, Claire made a decision:
She would find Sam's phone.
She would find the truth.
And the one who dared to rewrite his ending —
Would finally be exposed.
The house was quiet when Claire got home.
The kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful — just heavy. Like something had been waiting for her inside the walls, holding its breath until she arrived.
She closed the front door gently, as if any loud sound might crack the fragile calm of the evening. Her shoes made soft thuds against the floor as she slipped them off and walked through the narrow hallway, past the familiar photographs and the ticking wall clock that somehow sounded louder than usual.
Her mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. She looked up when Claire entered, eyes soft with concern.
"Hey," she said gently. "You're back."
Claire nodded. "Yeah."
Her mom turned down the heat and wiped her hands on a towel. "I saw the school post about Sam. They held a memorial, didn't they?"
Claire nodded again, her throat tightening. "Yeah. This morning."
Her mom stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from Claire's face. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. He was a good friend, wasn't he?"
Claire hesitated.
Then she whispered, "One of the best."
Her mother wrapped her arms around her — no more words, no probing questions. Just a quiet embrace, warm and solid, like a small shelter against the storm Claire hadn't told her about.
When they finally pulled apart, her mother gave her a small, sad smile. "There's food on the table. You should eat something."
"I will," Claire said, though she wasn't sure she meant it.
Later, she stood in the doorway of her room, staring at the soft yellow light filtering in through the curtains.
Everything looked the same.
The bed neatly made.
The books stacked beside her desk.
The small notebook half-hidden beneath her pillow.
She moved slowly, sitting at the edge of her bed to remove her earrings, her blazer, her shoes — movements quiet and methodical, as if done underwater. The silence around her was thick. Outside, she could hear the occasional distant hum of passing cars, the gentle rustle of wind through trees.
She changed into her sleep clothes, pulled the blanket back, and slid under it without turning off the light. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling.
Her phone was beside her, dark.
No new messages.
Not from Randy.
Not from Miko.
Not from the one person she most wished could still text her just once more.
Sam.
She closed her eyes, and in the silence, she could almost hear his voice —
"You already know, Claire. You just don't want to remember."
Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
She didn't cry. She couldn't.
She just breathed in the quiet, the kind that came after too many truths, too much grief, and not enough sleep.
Then slowly, finally…
Claire drifted off.
And in the dark, her dreams stirred —
fragments of a memory trying to resurface.
Of footsteps.
Of shadows.
And of a voice she couldn't quite place, whispering her name just before everything turned black.