The storm had swallowed Ravenwood whole.
Rain lashed the rooftops, rivers of water racing down gutters as lightning split the sky with bone-white cracks. The townspeople hurried indoors, locking their shutters, whispering prayers that the storm would pass before it sank its teeth too deep into their fragile little town. Ravenwood always seemed to draw storms, but tonight… tonight felt different.
In the middle of the downpour, a girl appeared.
She walked barefoot along the soaked, empty streets, her pale feet splashing through puddles as though she didn't feel the cold. Her black hair clung to her face and shoulders, streaming down her back in tangled ropes. A thin white dress—utterly unsuited for the weather—clung to her thin frame. She carried no bag, no umbrella, no sign of belonging anywhere.
Only silence.
Those who happened to glance from their windows swore afterward that she moved like mist—slipping between the sheets of rain without resistance, each step deliberate, unhurried, as if time bent itself to her pace.
She didn't knock when she passed houses. She didn't pause for directions. She didn't even shiver.
She simply walked.
The old baker, peering from behind his curtains, muttered to his wife, "That's no child of this town. Not with eyes like that."
For when the lightning cracked again, briefly illuminating the drenched streets, the girl lifted her head. And in that flash of light, her eyes glowed silver.
By dawn, the whispers had already begun.
Some claimed she was a runaway. Others swore she was cursed. And the boldest whispered what everyone feared but refused to say aloud: that she was not human at all.
But whatever she was, the girl walked calmly to the iron gates of Ravenwood High the next morning, water dripping from her dress onto the spotless floors, and introduced herself with a voice soft but steady:
"Elara."
No last name. No address. No guardian. Just Elara.
The secretary frowned, but stamped the paperwork anyway.
And from that moment, the students of Ravenwood would remember her forever—because the storm that night had not brought rain alone.
It had brought The Strange Girl.
The first bell rang.
Ravenwood High was not a large school, but the narrow hallways were already choked with students, their voices rising and falling in waves. Backpacks thumped against lockers, sneakers squeaked on the polished tiles, and laughter echoed like static.
Then she walked in.
Silence spread in ripples. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. The noise of the hallway dimmed as though the storm outside had slipped in with her, chilling the air.
Elara didn't seem to notice. Her silver eyes swept the hall, not in curiosity, not in fear—simply as if she were cataloguing the world. She moved with a quiet, deliberate grace, her wet shoes leaving faint prints on the floor.
"She's the new girl," someone whispered.
"She's weird," another muttered.
"She looks like a ghost."
Elara passed them without reaction, as if their words did not exist. She found her way into her first classroom, the squeak of the door hinge announcing her presence. The teacher paused mid-sentence, chalk frozen in her hand.
"Oh. You must be… Elara?"
The girl inclined her head once.
"Take a seat. Anywhere you like."
The students followed her every step as she chose a desk in the farthest corner. She placed no books on the table. No pen. Nothing at all. She simply folded her hands and sat.
For forty minutes she did not move. She did not write. She did not even seem to blink. Yet when the teacher asked a question no one else could answer—about the chemical reaction of iron and oxygen—Elara's voice cut through the silence.
"Rust."
One word. Clear. Cold. Certain.
The class shifted uneasily. No one remembered seeing her open the textbook. No one had seen her take notes.
At lunch, she sat alone.
The cafeteria was loud with clattering trays and chatter, but her corner remained untouched, like an invisible wall surrounded her. She ate nothing. She only watched. Her eyes followed each person, lingering not on their faces but on something deeper, as if she were studying their very souls.
Then the lights flickered.
Conversations stuttered. A tray slipped and clattered to the floor. The humming of the vending machines sputtered into silence.
And on the cafeteria window, fogged with condensation from the warmth of hundreds of bodies, a message appeared—slow, curling letters forming as if by an unseen hand.
"She has returned."
The screams came fast. Chairs toppled, food scattered, voices rose in panic.
But Elara didn't move. She sat as still as stone, silver eyes fixed on the words.
As though she already knew they would be there.