The hallway swallowed the noise again as soon as she entered her classroom.
The lights flickered once, and no one noticed. The clock above the whiteboard ticked, but it didn't match anything else. It was five minutes slow. Maybe everything else was five minutes fast.
Nova slid into her seat near the back, letting her backpack slump onto the floor beside her desk. She kept her hood up. Her cheek rested against her fist. Her eyes looked toward the window.
Outside, the sky appeared flat again.
The teacher, Mr. Daum, who taught geometry, scribbled something on the board with his back to them. His writing was unreadable, like he was drawing loops instead of letters. Someone coughed. A girl behind Nova snapped her gum and whispered about homecoming themes.
But Nova couldn't shake it.
That boy.
She tried to remember his face—really remember—but her mind wouldn't hold onto it. It felt like trying to catch water in her hands. She remembered his shape, how he stood too still, that slow, not-quite smile. She'd never seen him before. Yet, something in her chest had shifted when he looked at her, like her bones were trying to fall back into a shape they once held.
Mr. Daum kept writing.
Nova's eyes dropped to her desk.
Something was etched into the wood near her elbow. She ran her fingers across it. It wasn't just a name. It was a phrase:
> "YOU'LL REMEMBER SOON"
Her hand jerked back.
She stared at the carving.
It hadn't been there yesterday. She would have noticed. She always sat at this desk. Always. The grooves were shallow, like they had been made recently—too clean to have faded under layers of gum and pencil smears.
She turned her head slowly.
Across the room, in the seat by the windows, the boy was sitting.
Same face. Same stillness.
He was looking at her again.
Like they were alone in the room. Like no one else existed.
He didn't smile this time. He just watched.
Nova didn't move. Couldn't.
And then he blinked.
Once.
That single blink felt like thunder behind her ribs.